Sweat beads and trickles down the wrinkled tattoos on his torso. The late afternoon sun simmers a murky heat, tanning his wrinkled skin ever darker. Images flicker in and out of his imagination, never lingering long enough for him to capture.

There is desperation to his etchings. A fervor for detail he cannot render. He squeezes his eyelids close. Hoping to see what he wants to draw more clearly. He grabs at his close shorn hair. Tears almost well in his eyes.

Defeated, he collapses from his half-squat onto the floor. A half-empty mug of coffee rests amidst cigarette butts. Islands of wet cigarette ashes float precariously on cold coffee. He takes a sip of the coffee. He gags. He curses. He takes another sip. His eyes never leave the wall.

Charcoal streaks mark the white wall in front of him. Sketchings of a human face. He drops the charcoal piece in his hand. He claws at the wall. His dirty fingers smudging its once pristine surface. That face. Just behind the wall. Trapped in the concrete. His fingernails start to chip. He does not stop. His yelps of desperation draw looks of alarm from passing strangers. They pause. They keep their distance. They move on.

The kopitiam auntie hears the yelps. She runs over. She pulls him back. Holds him down. Seconds pass. He calms down. The kopitiam auntie replaces the dirty coffee mug. Places a new pack of cigarettes next to him. A fresh box of matches. He does not notice her.

He digs into the pack for another cigarette. Fumbles the matches with his charcoal stained fingers. He seeks answers between cigarette puffs. He tips pregnant cigarette ashes into the fresh mug of coffee.

The sunlight takes an orange amber hue. He traces the charcoal lines on the wall. He watches as elongated shadows trail the movement of his fingers. He looks for a break between movement and silhouette. A gap in reality.

He grimaces as pain sears up his head. He hits his head gently with a clenched fist. The throbbing does not stop. He feels the faint contours of a scar on his scalp. He wonders how he got the scar. The ambient noise threatens to overwhelm. Words he does not understand. The laughter of strangers. The clatter of metal cutlery on plastic bowls and plates. He fights to keep nausea at bay as his world starts to spin.

The nausea passes. He feels the residual heat of day escape from the floor. He smells the stale odour of his own sweat. He paws helplessly at the wall. Tears escape him.

The middle aged man looks at the collapsed figure of the sobbing old man. He asks the kopitiam auntie what he owes her for the day. Two packets of cigarettes. Three cups of coffee. He is concerned that the old man has not had any food. But he does not press the point. He pays the kopitiam auntie for what the old man consumed and for a couple of char siew buns. He tries to ignore her look of disapproval.

The middle aged man walks over to the old man. He settles down next to the old man and waits for his presence to be noticed. He takes one of the buns and bites into it. He offers the other bun to the old man. The old man wolfs down the offered bun.

The middle aged man removes a crumbled photograph from his wallet. He shows it to the old man. The photograph shows a man with tattoos with his arm around a woman. The old man grabs at the photo. It is the woman behind the wall. It is her. The middle aged man holds the old man gently by the arm.

“Time to go home, Pa.”