The Chicken Man (written by Universal Monk)
He tossed his marker into the trash. That final theorem still shimmered on the whiteboard, taunting him. Unproved. Unsolved. But something in his bones had changed.
He traded proofs for poultry. Journals for dirt beneath his fingernails. Now he walked barefoot through dew-wet grass, holding some grain, beard tangled like the nettles growing wild by the coop.
Sunlight broke over the ridge, catching the glint of wire fencing and chicken eyes shining like amber beads. They clucked at him like old friends. He smiled, teeth crooked, heart steady. There were no more variables. Just eggs. Straw. Sky. And finally, silence.
END
