him her

it

 me·lo·di·ous.

as in, the way the wind swept.

the howling of the trees, as the water beckoned on the rocks below.

the booming sound of thunder that wasn't really thunder at all, but the clapping the rocks would do everytime a gust of air flew through the captured water beneath him.

he almost felt as though this was the exact same scenery, at the exact same time, at the exact same place, with the exact same thoughts as his son once endured.

but that was impossible. as it is, this is Creaking Falls, hours away from where his son once stood.

where his journey to death began.

the man, obviously exhasuted and tired from his long and hard adventure to the rooky mountains, swept his feet from beneath him, sitting right at the creeks' edge.

"what i would do to feel the wind" the man said.

he closed his eyes, and pondered.

what else was there for him to do?

did he have anything to live for?

would anyone miss him?

was there anyone left to miss him?

the answer, of course, was no.

no, he didnt have anything to live for. no, no one would miss him. and no, there was not a damned soul to miss him.

the man had stood up, and his knees almost begged to collapse. they wanted to break, they wanted him to fall forward, with no strength to hold on.

his mind chanted "no."

his tears told him "yes", and, gradually,

the tears trickled ever more fast.

one after the other, the other after another.

and, finally.

his mind had nothing over his tears.