He read so much at the end, that books became his life. He devoured them. They consumed him. Sometimes two to three novels a day. Some say he learned magic and just disappeared. Others said it was a book on mysticism and he rose up into the heavens under an Arabian moon. Perhaps he finally learned to fly and flew away into the night sky. No one knows for certain. When the night nurse went to check on him and pulled back the curtain by his bed, he was gone. One book lay open to a story he had been particularly fond; Icarus and the Sun. I will miss him.