Maybe it was the rain. The clouds, the wind, the biting weather. She was in a continuous curious melancholy. The piano sang ancient words, long left unspoken. A small statue of a praying angel. A small candle, a peaceful expression. It sat on its knees like it was exactly where it was supposed to be. But, what about her? Where was she supposed to be? She has been in so many places, and yet none welcomed her. She has seen so many views, and yet none moved her. An open book. A short story. Was it a tragedy? Or a comedy? Maybe it was just life. In its pure but raw form. Life, with all the rot and all the flowers. Fall was coming. Rain was falling. And with it, all that once was. Gone. Washed away by the cries of the sky. Wailing grief. Quiet sorrow.

Why do the tears fall? What does she mourn?

Maybe it’s what could have been. What she could have become. Maybe it’s what has been lost and what has been found. Maybe it’s what has been known and what is known now. Existing is a state of being. And she just is.