He skitters down the dirt path just before dawn. He skitters past the river where the rats wriggled and drowned. He sidles past Hamelin’s cobblestones into the town square. He pauses by the window where the elders promised to pay. Scrutinizing every part of what has come to be.  

He sneaks past the fountain, unfurls his colored cape. Looks for flickering candles. A hint of some lament. He looks for shrouded gatherings. For wide-eyed searchers wandering. For climbers filled with dread who will never find the mountain. 

He pauses at the wall where the children used to play. Bristles at the silence. No rosemary. No names. He sidles up the tower steps. Surveys trees and hills. Searching for a penitent procession winding through the trees.

He lingers until sunrise sweeps into the town. Startles when a child emerges from behind a timber door. The one who missed the music. Who can’t hear speech or tune. The one who pantomimes his play, as if somehow they’ll return. 

He watches as the elders invade the brightening square; laughing at newfound freedom, flipping coins into the fountain. He watches them stride through uninfested streets, greeting other joyful striders, shooting looks at the somber stray. He watches the child’s mother rush to the wall; sheltering, embracing, shielding from the glares.

He slinks down the tower steps. Skitters into the woods. He finds the creek where he played the first fateful tune. He breathes righteous air. Lifts the flute to his lips. Plays a tune for all but two inhabitants. He retraces his steps over stubborn stones. Lures the laughing striders down to the mud and reeds; unpardoned, unworthy. Never to return.