2060 （fiction) One “Albert…Albert…” Like the doleful wind outside rattling the leaves, Charles Smith’s raspy voice spread silently throughout the icy room. Black drapes covered the windows, and the little bedroom lost its original glory. My dear wife Mara died here, precisely in this room…that was some-what two years ago, and then, I was the one watching, and crying… Charles thought through his laboring breaths. He forced himself to look up beside his bed, at his 30-year-old son Albert Smith and his faithful lawyer Henry Black. Albert’s ice blue eyes were full of tears. He was clutching his father’s bony hand, whipping his eyes once in a while to suck away the tears. Unlike Albert, Henry Black’s face was utterly calm. He has been through lots of deaths obviously, accustomed to cries and sobs and pains. I have so many words in my mouth, but somehow I can’t just spill them out… He felt cold, colder than ever. No, no, I don’t want to just leave the world like this. I have so much to tell Albert, but… …no…