Work Text:
Two Lonely Souls Grew Together
One
Waylon Smithers first saw Charles Montgomery Burns when he was four months old.
Of course, he didn't remember it.
No one remembers things from when they were four months old.
But later his father, the elder Waylon Smithers, who was then Mr. Burns's assistant, told the story so many times that little Smithers almost believed he really did remember.
"He bent down to look at you,"
his father said, his eyes bright, "and he said, 'This child will be useful.'"
Useful.
Smithers chewed on that word countless times in the years that followed.
In Mr. Burns's dictionary, it was the highest praise he could give.
Not "cute," not "pretty," not "I like this child."
"Useful." An object, a tool, something that could be put to use.
But that was Mr. Burns. That was his only standard.
His father died when Smithers was four months and thirteen days old.
Something happened at the power plant—it wasn't called a nuclear plant back then, it was called the "Springfield Electrical Factory," an enterprise handed down from Mr. Burns's grandfather, Wainwright Montgomery Burns.
To prevent a meltdown, his father locked himself inside the reactor core.
What happened after that, Mr. Burns never said in detail.
He only said one thing: "Your father did the right thing."
The right thing.
Only as an adult did Smithers slowly piece together the truth: his father died of radiation poisoning, his body soaking in some water-filled pit for twelve years, already half-rotten when found.
And Mr. Burns, after all that, took the four-month-old him into Burns Manor.
"From today, you live here."
Mr. Burns said.
Smithers was still in swaddling clothes then; of course, he didn't remember.
But he believed those words must have been spoken. Because in the sixty years that followed, he never left.
Two
At five years old, Smithers first became aware that he was different from others.
Not because he lived in the town's largest mansion, not because he rode to school every day in a 1936 Stutz Bearcat—Mr. Burns insisted on using that car to pick him up and drop him off, though the chauffeur complained it was older than all the other students' parents combined.
The difference was that other children, when they came home, called out "Dad" or "Mom."
When he came home, he called out "Mr. Burns."
"Mr. Burns, I'm back."
Mr. Burns looked up from a pile of ledgers, glanced at him, and said, "Wash your hands. Dinner at seven."
No hug.
No "How was school today?"
But Smithers learned to find warmth elsewhere: Mr. Burns remembered his lactose intolerance, so there was always soy milk in the kitchen.
Mr. Burns knew he was allergic to bee stings, so there was an epinephrine injector in every room.
Mr. Burns gave him a Barbie doll for Christmas when he was seven—Barbie had just been introduced, and this was the only one in all of Springfield.
"Why give me this?" Smithers asked.
Mr. Burns frowned at the blonde doll as if looking at a financial statement he couldn't understand.
"Your father... mentioned once that your mother, when she was carrying you, had hoped for a daughter. I thought you might like it."
That was the first time Smithers had ever heard news of his mother.
It was also the last.
That Barbie doll, he kept for fifty years.
Three
At twelve years old, Smithers got beaten up at school by Homer Simpson.
Homer was a few grades ahead, already a chubby kid who specialized in picking on those smaller and weaker than him.
Smithers wore thick glasses, spoke softly, and never looked at people when walking—he was thinking about Mr. Burns, about the power plant, about when he would grow up and be able to stand by Mr. Burns's side like his father had.
That day Homer cornered him, snatched his glasses, and crushed them underfoot.
"Four-eyes!" Homer shouted, running off.
Smithers didn't cry.
He groped on the ground for a long time, found a few pieces of broken glass, clutched them in his palm, and walked back to Burns Manor.
Mr. Burns was in the study looking at stock prices—stock prices from after 1929; he was always fifty years behind.
Hearing footsteps, he didn't lift his head as he asked, "Where are your glasses?"
"Broken," Smithers said.
"How did they break?"
"Stepped on by a classmate."
Mr. Burns put down the stock ticker in his hand and slowly turned around.
His movements were always slow, because he was so old, every bone aching.
But his eyes—those murky, greenish-glowing eyes—were now fixed on Smithers with an expression Smithers had never seen before.
"Name," Mr. Burns said.
"What?"
"Your classmate's name."
Smithers hesitated. "Homer Simpson."
Mr. Burns nodded.
Then he did something Smithers would never forget: he rose from his chair, walked over to Smithers, extended that withered, skin-and-bones hand, and gently placed it on top of Smithers's head.
"Smithers," he said, "you remember this. In this world, I am the only one allowed to bully you. No one else."
That hand rested on Smithers's head for three seconds.
Three seconds.
One hundred eighty-three grams of weight, coming from an eighty-one-year-old man (or one hundred four, or nine hundred, depending on who you asked).
That was the closest thing to a hug Smithers ever received in his life.
Four
On his twenty-first birthday, Smithers graduated from college.
Mr. Burns did not attend the graduation ceremony.
He hated crowds, hated sunlight, hated anything that required him to leave the manor.
But that night, when Smithers returned to Burns Manor, he found a dinner set for two in the study.
"Sit down," Mr. Burns said.
What they ate, Smithers couldn't remember later.
He only remembered one thing Mr. Burns said near the end of dinner.
One sentence that changed his life.
"Smithers, you are the only person I can tolerate."
The only one.
That word fell into Smithers's heart like a seed into fertile soil.
It would take root there, sprout, grow into a towering tree that shaded all the sunlight from his subsequent years.
That night, Smithers returned to his room, stood before the mirror, and looked at the young man reflected there—thick glasses, hair combed meticulously.
He said to himself: From today, your life belongs to him.
What he didn't know was that he would keep this vow for fifty years.
Five
At twenty-seven, Smithers officially became Mr. Burns's personal assistant.
Of course, he'd been doing assistant work all along.
From age sixteen, he'd used his spare time after school to help Mr. Burns organize documents, answer phones, handle all the trivial matters Mr. Burns couldn't be bothered with.
But on the day of his official appointment, Mr. Burns called him into the office and handed him a sheet of paper.
"What's this?" Smithers asked.
"Your list of duties," Mr. Burns said.
Smithers looked down. On the paper it read:
Answer Mr. Burns's telephone
Prepare Mr. Burns's tax returns
Moisten Mr. Burns's eyeballs
Assist Mr. Burns with chewing and swallowing
Lie to Congress
Light typing
Smithers looked up at Mr. Burns.
Mr. Burns was looking back at him.
In those murky eyes, there was something Smithers couldn't quite read.
Many years later, he would understand what it was: it was the only way Mr. Burns knew to say "I trust you."
"Any questions?" Mr. Burns asked.
"No, sir," Smithers said.
From that day forward, every morning he squeezed fresh orange juice for Mr. Burns, and every night he tucked him in.
He never said "good night," only "see you tomorrow, sir."
Because Mr. Burns didn't like "good night"—"good night" meant an ending, meant possibly not waking up.
But "see you tomorrow" was a promise.
Mr. Burns needed promises.
Though he never admitted it.
Six
At thirty-four, Smithers kissed Mr. Burns for the first time.
That day, everyone in Springfield thought the world was ending.
A comet was about to strike the earth. Humanity was about to perish.
People were screaming in the streets, some looting stores, some kneeling in prayer, some stripping naked and swimming in the fountain—Smithers didn't see that last one himself, he heard about it later.
Smithers didn't go to the streets.
He went to Burns Manor.
Mr. Burns sat in the study, an old photo album spread open before him.
Hearing footsteps, he looked up calmly and said, "Smithers, look, this is 1909. I was just a toddler here."
Smithers walked over and stood behind him, looking at the yellowed photograph.
In it, a little boy in a sailor suit held a teddy bear, smiling brightly at the camera.
"His name was Bobo," Mr. Burns said, pointing at the teddy bear. "My only friend."
Smithers's heart clenched tight.
He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but Mr. Burns continued.
"Later my parents sent me away to boarding school. They said it would temper my will, make me into a ruthless man. They said this expressed love better than hugs and kisses."
Mr. Burns's fingers gently traced across the photo, and the teddy bear's smile seemed to come alive under his touch.
"By the time I came home, they were already dead."
Smithers stood there, watching Mr. Burns's profile.
He had looked at that face for thirty-four years, knew every wrinkle, had interpreted every expression countless times.
But now, on that face, he saw something he had never seen before.
Vulnerability.
Charles Montgomery Burns, the richest, most powerful, most wicked man in Springfield, at this moment looked like a lost child.
The sky outside darkened.
The comet was drawing closer.
Someone outside shouted, "Ten minutes left! Ten minutes until the end of the world!"
Mr. Burns looked up at the window.
His voice was terrifyingly calm: "Smithers, is there anything you want to do? In these last ten minutes."
Smithers said nothing.
He walked over, moved around to face Mr. Burns, bent down, and kissed him.
Kissed that withered, icy mouth that had never known warmth.
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.
Mr. Burns didn't move.
His eyes were open, full of confusion.
Smithers straightened up, his heart pounding as if it might burst from his chest.
He wanted to say: I love you.
From the time I was four months old, from the moment you bent down to look at me, from the second you placed your hand on my head. I've wanted to say it for thirty-four years.
But he didn't say it.
Because the sky suddenly brightened.
The comet had grazed past Earth. No impact. The world hadn't ended.
The all-clear sounded.
Mr. Burns blinked, looked at him, and said, "Smithers, was that—"
"A sign of respect, sir."
Smithers said, his voice so steady it surprised even himself, "In my family, this is how we show respect."
Mr. Burns nodded.
He believed it.
Or perhaps he chose to believe it.
"Quite an interesting tradition."
He said, "Remind me tomorrow to give me a written report on this tradition."
"Yes, sir."
That night, Smithers returned to his room, closed the door, and slid down until he sat on the floor, his back against it.
He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking violently.
But he made no sound.
In Burns Manor, he never dared make any sound.
He cried for a long time.
Not because he had kissed Mr. Burns.
But because, in that moment he lied, he realized something:
He would keep lying.
Until he died.
Because the truth was too heavy for Mr. Burns to bear.
And too heavy for himself.
Seven
At thirty-seven, Mr. Burns fired Smithers for the first time—over a woman.
Her name was Gloria, and she was a police officer.
Mr. Burns met her that spring, and then did something Smithers had never seen before: he fell in love.
"Smithers, look, isn't she beautiful?"
Mr. Burns said, pointing at Gloria's photograph, his voice holding a tenderness Smithers had never heard.
Smithers looked at the photo and nodded, saying, "Yes, sir, she is very beautiful."
A fire churned in his stomach.
That fire was called jealousy. But he couldn't show it.
He could only smile, help Mr. Burns choose clothes for their dates, help Mr. Burns make restaurant reservations, help Mr. Burns write love letters—
"Sir," he finally couldn't help asking, "do you truly love her?"
Mr. Burns looked up from the love letter, frowning at him: "Love? Of course I love her. She's the only person who makes me want to keep living."
The only one.
That word again.
But this time, it wasn't pointing at Smithers.
That night, Smithers went home, entered the bathroom, and looked at himself in the mirror for a long time.
The man in the mirror was forty-seven, his hair beginning to gray, the crow's feet at his eyes deepening.
He looked at himself and asked: What do you have left?
No answer.
Later, Gloria left Mr. Burns.
Not because of Smithers, but because she discovered Mr. Burns's true nature herself.
But that was much later.
Before that, Smithers was fired by Mr. Burns once, for saying something he shouldn't have in front of Gloria.
"You're fired," Mr. Burns said.
That was the third time in his life Smithers had heard those words.
The first time was playing games as a child, the second time was when Mr. Burns was in a bad mood and said it casually.
But this time, it was real.
He walked out of Burns Manor, stood at the gate, and looked back once at that huge iron door.
Behind that door was where he had lived for forty-seven years.
Outside that door was a world he had never truly faced.
He went to Moe's Tavern and drank himself senseless.
He stared blankly at the Comedy Central channel for three whole days.
He nearly gave up everything—
Then Mr. Burns was shot.
When the news came, Smithers was on his eighth drink.
He put down his glass, ran out of the bar, flagged down a car, and headed straight for Burns Manor.
The manor was surrounded by people.
Police, reporters, curious townsfolk.
Smithers pushed through the crowd, rushed inside, and saw Mr. Burns lying on a stretcher, his chest covered in blood.
"Mr. Burns!" He knelt down, grabbing that withered hand.
Mr. Burns opened his eyes, looked at him, his lips moving.
Smithers leaned close and heard him say:
"Smithers... I thought you'd gone."
"I haven't gone, sir."
Smithers said, tears falling, "I'll never go."
Mr. Burns was taken to the hospital.
The truth later came out: the shooter wasn't Smithers, it was Maggie Simpson.
But Smithers didn't care.
From that moment on, he knew one thing:
Mr. Burns needed him.
Maybe it wasn't love, but it was need.
In this world, the only person Mr. Burns needed was him.
Eight
At fifty-two, Smithers officially came out.
"Mr. Burns," he said, standing in the study, his palms sweaty, "I have something to tell you."
Mr. Burns looked up from his stock prices: "Speak."
Smithers took a deep breath: "I'm gay."
Mr. Burns looked at him, was silent for three seconds. Then he said, "Smithers, who cares?"
Smithers was stunned.
"I mean,"
Mr. Burns frowned, "your sexual orientation, what does that have to do with me? You're still my assistant, you'll still squeeze my orange juice every morning, you'll still help moisten my eyeballs. Will any of that change?"
"No, sir, it won't change."
"Well then." Mr. Burns lowered his head and went back to his stock prices.
Smithers stood there, and suddenly he laughed.
This was Mr. Burns's way.
Not a hug, not "I accept you," not any normal person's reaction.
He was saying it this way: You're still mine. This changes nothing.
That night, Smithers returned to his room and wrote one sentence in his diary:
"Fifty-two years. He finally let me know that my existence is the only thing he never has to think about."
Nine
At sixty-three, Smithers quit.
Mr. Burns had once again ignored his efforts, once again taken his loyalty for granted.
That day, standing in the office, watching Mr. Burns imperiously order him around, Smithers suddenly asked himself a question:
If you don't leave now, will you ever be able to leave in this lifetime?
The answer was: No.
So he left.
He joined an environmental organization, planting trees every day, promoting环保, spending time with like-minded people.
He discovered he could laugh, could make friends, could live a normal life.
But every night, lying in bed, his mind was still on that man.
What was he doing now?
Did anyone remember to squeeze his orange juice?
Did anyone help moisten his eyeballs?
Which drawer were his false teeth in?
Did he have enough sheep's blood in stock?
A week later, Mr. Burns appeared at his door.
"Smithers."
Mr. Burns said. He wore an ill-fitting suit, his hair a mess, looking like he'd just crawled out of a wreckage.
"Mr. Burns?" Smithers stood up in surprise. "How did you—"
"The plant is going to melt down."
Mr. Burns said, "Without you, everything is chaos. I don't know how to stop those machines, I don't know who to trust, I don't know—"
He stopped.
His murky eyes held something approaching helplessness for the first time.
"I need you."
Three words.
Coming from Mr. Burns's mouth, they were worth a fortune.
Smithers stood there, looking at him.
This man who had tormented him for sixty years.
This man who had never given him a single sincere compliment, never given him a real hug.
This man he had loved for a lifetime, and suffered for a lifetime.
"Sir," he said, "do you know, you've never said that in your life."
Mr. Burns was silent for a moment.
Then he said, "I thought you knew."
Smithers closed his eyes.
Sixty years.
Nineteen thousand days and nights.
He had been waiting for those words all along.
And Mr. Burns thought he knew.
That was the deepest tragedy between them: Mr. Burns's love, if it existed at all, was a love that couldn't be expressed.
It existed in those tiny details—the perpetually warm soy milk, the ever-present epinephrine injector, the Barbie doll that stayed for fifty years.
But it never became words.
And Smithers, he spent a lifetime learning to interpret those details.
He learned to read dependence in Mr. Burns's silences, trust in his coldness, habit in his disregard.
But sometimes, he still wanted a word.
He opened his eyes and looked at Mr. Burns.
That ninety-three-year-old man (or one hundred sixteen, or nine hundred thirty), standing in the afternoon sunlight, hunched like an ancient tree about to wither.
"Sir," he said, "I'll come back. But you need to remember, it's not because you need me. It's because I need you."
Mr. Burns blinked.
He didn't understand what that meant.
Maybe he never would.
But Smithers didn't mind anymore.
Ten
At seventy-one, Mr. Burns nearly died again.
The doctors said he had one hundred and three diseases inside him, each one enough to be fatal.
But they had formed a delicate balance among themselves, "like the Three Stooges," the doctor said, "if any one disease flares up, it triggers counterbalances from the others. But if this balance is broken, a gentle breeze could kill him."
Smithers kept vigil by his bedside, holding that withered hand.
Mr. Burns was unconscious for three days and three nights.
He sat for three days and three nights.
On the fourth morning, Mr. Burns opened his eyes.
"Smithers," he said, his voice hoarse as sandpaper.
"I'm here, sir."
Mr. Burns looked at him, a faint light in his murky eyes.
Very faint, but Smithers saw it.
"What time is it?" Mr. Burns asked.
Smithers checked his watch: "Five twenty-three in the morning, sir."
Mr. Burns nodded.
Then he said something that Smithers would never forget for the rest of his life:
"Smithers, while I was unconscious, I had a dream. I dreamed I died and went somewhere. You weren't there. I searched for a long time, but I couldn't find you."
Smithers said nothing. He just held that hand a little tighter.
"And then I woke up," Mr. Burns said, "and saw you here."
He closed his eyes and fell asleep again.
Smithers sat there, watching his face.
That face he had looked at for seventy-one years.
Every wrinkle was a mark of time, recording every day he had loved this man.
"Sir," he said softly, "do you know, I first saw you when I was four months old. You said to me, 'This child will be useful.' You might have forgotten, but I remember every detail."
Outside the window, the sky gradually brightened.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains, falling on Mr. Burns's face.
In the morning light, that face looked less aged, as if it had returned to long ago, perhaps a hundred years ago, perhaps to that little boy in the sailor suit from the yellowed photograph.
"You said you couldn't find me,"
Smithers continued, "but you'll never fail to find me. Because I've never left. From four months old to seventy-one years old, I've always been by your side. I help you remember Homer Simpson's name, help you recall things you've forgotten, help you do the things you can't do yourself. I am your memory, sir. I am your crutch. I am your only friend."
He paused, then lowered his head, resting his forehead against the back of Mr. Burns's hand.
"You say you need me. But what you don't know is, I need you more than you need me, and for longer. From the moment I first saw you, I needed you."
Mr. Burns's breathing was even and steady. He was sleeping, couldn't hear these words.
But Smithers didn't care anymore.
"This is my vow, sir. As long as I exist, you will never die. Because I am your memory—as long as I remember you, you will never disappear."
Eleven
Many more years passed after that.
Mr. Burns survived nine bouts of pneumonia, twenty-three cardiac arrests, forty-seven of the doctor's death predictions.
He lived until everyone in town was dead, leaving only him.
He lived until even he forgot how old he was, only on every September fifteenth, Smithers would celebrate his birthday.
"Happy birthday, Mr. Burns."
"Thank you, Smithers. How old am I today?"
Smithers would give a number.
The number changed every year, but Mr. Burns never cared.
He would just nod, then say, "Smithers, how much longer do you think I'll live?"
Smithers would look at him seriously and say, "A long time, sir. Longer than anyone thinks."
Mr. Burns would smile.
Not a cold smile, not a mocking smile, but a genuine faint smile.
Then he would say, "Good. Smithers, I don't know what I'd do without you."
Mr. Burns said that more and more often now.
Maybe because he was old, maybe because he'd finally learned to express himself.
But Smithers knew the real reason was:
They had grown together.
Not love, or not just ordinary love.
It was something older and deeper than love.
It was habit, it was dependence, it was two lonely souls growing together over the long years until they couldn't be told apart.
Twelve
The day of Mr. Burns's final coma, Smithers was ninety-three.
He was old himself now.
Hair completely white, walking with a cane, glasses thick as bottle bottoms.
But he still came every day, sat by the bedside, holding Mr. Burns's hand.
The doctors said this time it was really the end.
The balance of one hundred and three diseases had finally broken, a century of life about to reach its close.
Smithers nodded and said, "I know."
He knew.
Had known for seventy-one years. But he still came.
The day Mr. Burns opened his eyes, rain was falling outside.
Autumn rain, tapping against the glass with a fine patter.
"Smithers," Mr. Burns said. His voice was light as a feather.
"I'm here, sir."
Mr. Burns looked at him, something flickering in his murky eyes.
Perhaps remembering something, perhaps finally wanting to say something.
"Smithers," he said, "do you still remember Bobo?"
"Yes, sir. Your teddy bear."
"Is it still there?"
Smithers nodded.
He had kept it all along.
From the day Mr. Burns first mentioned it, he had found that bear, repaired it, kept it in his room.
"Yes, sir."
Mr. Burns smiled slightly.
A very faint smile, but Smithers saw it.
"Smithers," he said, "do you know why I kept it?"
"Why?"
"Because it was the only thing... that loved me, when I was still a child."
Mr. Burns's voice grew softer, "Later I grew up and became a bad man. No one loved me, and I didn't need anyone's love. But I kept it, because it was the only witness that I could once have been loved."
Smithers squeezed his hand.
"Sir," he said, "someone loves you."
Mr. Burns looked at him, blinking.
"Who?"
Smithers was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Me. From four months old, until now."
Mr. Burns was silent.
For a long, long time.
So long that Smithers thought he'd fallen asleep.
Then Mr. Burns said something. Something it had taken him a hundred years to learn to say:
"I know."
Smithers froze.
"I... always knew,"
Mr. Burns said, his eyes on the ceiling, "but I never knew how to... respond. I never learned that. The day my parents sent me to boarding school, they took that out of my life. Later I became someone who couldn't love. But I... knew you loved me."
He turned his head, looking at Smithers.
In his murky eyes, for the first time, there were tears.
"I'm sorry, Smithers."
I'm sorry. Three words.
Mr. Burns had never said them in his life.
Smithers's tears fell, landing on Mr. Burns's hand.
"Sir," he said, "you don't need to apologize. You only need to know that in this life, I have never regretted it."
Mr. Burns nodded. Then he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
This time, he did not wake again.
Thirteen
At the funeral, the whole town came.
No one loved Mr. Burns, but everyone knew who he was.
Springfield's oldest man, richest man, wickedest man.
He was dead. This was the end of an era.
Smithers stood at the front of the crowd, in a black suit, wearing sunglasses.
In his hands, he held something: an old teddy bear, mended many times, its eyes replaced with new ones, but its fur still bearing the traces of a hundred years.
Bobo.
He placed Bobo inside the coffin, by Mr. Burns's pillow.
"Sir," he said softly, "you'll never be lonely again."
As the coffin lid closed, he turned and walked home.
In his apartment, there was another identical teddy bear.
One he had secretly copied many years ago, so that someday, when the original Bobo went with Mr. Burns, he would still have one.
He sat on the sofa, holding the bear, looking at the sky outside.
The sky was very blue, blue as on a certain day a hundred years ago.
Back then he was still an infant, held in his father's arms.
Back then Mr. Burns was still young—young for him—bending down to look at him, saying, "This child will be useful."
Back then he didn't know he would spend a lifetime fulfilling those words.
He closed his eyes.
Sunlight streamed through the window, falling on his graying hair, on the teddy bear in his arms, on the very faint smile on his face.
"Sir, when I find you again, will you still recognize me? Will you still remember me? Will you still say, 'Smithers, you are the only person I can tolerate'?"
No answer.
Only the wind, blowing in through the window, stirring his gray-white hair.
He opened his eyes, looking at the sky outside.
"Sir," he said, "I will find you. No matter how long, no matter how far. This is my last and only vow."
He held the teddy bear a little tighter, like many, many years ago, when that four-month-old baby, held in his father's arms, first saw the man who would change his life.
Epilogue
Many years later, someone asked Waylon Smithers, what is the one thing in your life you regret most?
He thought about it for a moment, then shook his head.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
The questioner was surprised. "You gave him everything. He never truly responded. Isn't that worth regretting?"
Smithers smiled.
That smile was very light, very faint, like an old soul who had traveled through the long years.
"You don't understand,"
he said. "Love isn't a transaction. You don't give in order to receive. You give because giving is all you can do. Because that person is the only light in your life. No matter how faint that light, no matter how cold, as long as it's there, you won't disappear into the darkness."
He looked down at the yellowed old photograph in his hand.
In it, a little boy in a sailor suit, holding a teddy bear, smiled brightly at the camera.
"He was my only light,"
he said. "If there is a next life, I would love him again. Because that's who I am."
He closed the photo album, stood up, and walked to the window.
Outside, Springfield's sky was still gray, like many, many years ago.
In the distance, the nuclear plant's cooling towers still puffed white steam, like many, many years ago.
Everything had changed, and nothing had changed.
"Good night, Mr. Burns," he said softly, "see you tomorrow."
He turned and walked into the shadows of the room.
The door closed slowly behind him with a soft click.
(The End)