They Saw...

He was low by the walkway rail, one arm shaking in the glare. The glass above him filled with heads, row on row, behind their light. He raised his hand into the light. No sound got through the glass. His hand did all his asking, spread open in their sight. A curtain shifted, high and small. A shoulder blocked the glow. It stayed there long enough to see, then stepped out of the frame. One window dropped to black, then two, then five along the wall. The dark moved pane by pane until one light held the wall. His grip slid down the rail. The glass gave nothing back. One window held its light. One light, and him below. They saw. They saw. Light after light. Down to one. The last light held a standing shape, a watcher at the pane. The man looked down. He looked up. And both of them were sure. Then the blind came down, dead slow, the slowest dark of all. He watched it shut him out. The walkway light stayed on. The light could only show him. It could not climb the rail. It laid him out across their sills and made the curtains tell. A man can stand in every window and still be left below. They saw. They saw him hold the rail. They stepped back from the glass so the dark could take him. They saw. They put their own lights out. I counted every window, and every window saw. They saw. They saw him hold the rail. They stepped back from the glass, and the dark came down by hand. They saw. They killed the final light. I counted every window, and every window saw.