Zen leaned forward. In the darkness, the old man’s eyes were still open, his face frozen in fear. The moonlight blanched his skin white, the Hin color of mourning. Zen slipped his gloves back on and, with two fingers, pulled the shopkeeper’s eyes shut. “Peace be upon your soul,” he murmured, “and may you find the Path home.” Then he stood, drew his black peacoat tightly around him, and stepped out of the ravaged shop. Within moments, the shadows had swallowed him, and he was no more than a silhouette in the night.
