He kept us talking all evening. He had so many stories to tell, and he wanted to share them all with us.
At first we thought he was only being friendly, but that really wasn’t all. He was afraid of something. He didn’t want the talking to end, as though the stories themselves were the only things keeping him alive. So we stayed, and we let him talk.
In the morning we heard he’d died in his sleep that very night. Only later did we find the note he slipped under our door. “Thanks for listening,” was all it said.