Unfinished Stories


He sighed, a heavy sigh full of life, and threw on his coat. It was raining outside again, heavy drops hammered against his window, a rhythm synonymous with the cold and the dark. He stopped in the corridor as he caught sight of himself in the mirror, he was a mess. His thick black hair rested over his face in the same place it was when he got put of bed that morning and his eyes were dark, restless and reflected a sad clarity he didn’t feel comfortable looking at any longer. 

He tightened his scarf and opened the door. As the door slammed shut and he started walking towards the rain splattered courtyard he listened out for a response. Any call of recognition or notice. More than all he longed for the door to open after him and to hear a voice beckon him him back home. It never came, perhaps once, but not anymore. 

He took his first steps outside and felt the cold hit him. The pincers of the December wind pulling at his arms and cheeks. The rain trying its hardest to wash him away with it. Sometimes he wished it could, wash him away, his thoughts and all and he could be free, nothing but the journey to the sea to care for. Of course though he was not rain but Human and instead of running down the street towards a drain he was left walking, pushing his hands in his pockets to fight off the biting cold. 

He walks for a while before he realises he has no real idea of destination. 


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