He stood perfectly still, eyes closed. Even with the chill in the air, you could hardly even tell he was breathing.

The old man had moved in next door just the day before. Mr. Fujita from Osaka, I think, according to my mother. Not that I cared. He was, what, 80?

I was up early. I didn’t know why, but I was up at 4:00a and just couldn’t get back to sleep. I had decided to go out and paint the sunrise.

That was when I saw him. I don’t know why, but something about the way he stood, so serene. I forgot about the sunrise. I started to paint.

I decided I would just do a quick rendition of the scene, doing something more detailed later (I have a photographic memory). After a few minutes (during which he never even twitched), it was done.

As soon as I put my brush down, he moved. Faster than I could follow, he punched, breaking a brick I’d not even noticed was in front of him. He turned to me, smiling, bowed, and went inside.

I stood there for a moment, awestruck. I worked the rest of the day on the painting.