A group of old men, the same bunch every morning, sat around tables at the only cafe. They drank their coffee and talked of what happened.
All that was left of him was his hat, they said. Found alongside the road, alongside the ditch bank.
They found his hat, but they never found him. Just his hat. Just gone, without a trace...
Whoever he was, he wasn't from around here, they said. Nobody knew him. Nobody knew his hat. He couldn't have been from around these parts. Wrong kind of hat...
They all agreed, since nobody knew him, it didn't matter what happened to him. They didn't know him, so he wouldn't be missed.
MAYBE...He was JUST a hat...
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