An elderly man saw me wandering around town and offered me a cup of coffee.
We sat down and talked about my adventure so far. My struggles and victories. He just remained silent, absorbing every word that came out of my mouth.
He then proceeded to tell me about his life, and what a life it had been. He had been all over the world, seen and done things I cound’t even conceive of.
At the end of his fabulous tale, he looked me in the eye, grabbed my hand and put a small, old and weathered ball in it. A pokéball.
I looked at it, it had obviously seen battle, so much that on closer observation it was almost a miracle that it still held together. Yet it did.
I couldn’t keep it. This ball was personal. I didn’t even care about which pokémon was inside.
I raised my head, prepared to return the ball to his rightful owner, but he was nowhere to be found. The house was empty.
Got up, went outsitde and looked around, a few people were walking by, but no sign of the elder. I looked back at the house… of which there only ruins.
My hand was still grasping the pokéball.