It was a sad picture, though there was nothing emotionally disturbing about the subject of the photograph itself, though the boy that grasped the paper felt his heart sink. The holder gingerly let the paper settle on his hands, and brooded over it as minutes past via spindly clocks' hands. The old, broken timepieces informed him of time that should have happened long ago, ticking away at past hours. Broken glass of an ancient grandfather clock's face strewn about the rotting wooden floors, there was nothing here. Nothing but broken glass and old time and a boy who was lost in a photograph. The picture belonged in the time that the old clocks assured him mistakenly it was. He put the image down and gingerly gripped the crumpled-up loose leaf paper with smudged and blurry writing from exactly three years and a day ago.

Anguish crossed his face as his eyes ran over the pencil markings, and he moved the paper out of the way of salty rain that fell from off his jawbone. He knew the words, but he let his vision drip through the motions, pretending to read when he was really reciting mentally. Before it was halfway over, he had begun to let his eyes drift to the gray-tinged walls and his mouth move in the words written on the paper, which he had dropped minutes ago. Lying with the creases evident, the note read as followed;



"To Whom It May Concern,

There's something about dying; something like sleep. It's kind of nice; you drift in and out stressfully, but find yourself longing for it the longer you stay awake and alive. They say you die a little each time you sleep. I believe it.

I haven't got long, and I know I won't see anyone, because you can't get here that fast. That's okay. Personally, to me, its better that I slip into dark without the crying, for people should not mourn the life of an individual failure. Just know that by the time you get this letter, I won't be able to reply.

I've noticed something. I've noticed something that I think I've known since birth, though simply neglected to admit to myself. But as my time winds down according to the clock and the date that they have set for me, I've come to realize that it doesn't matter. We all try so hard, and we all live so fast. We want certain things, and we give so much for them; sometimes killing to reap the rewards and spoils of life. But at the conclusion, it doesn't matter. We all end the same way, seeing as no living thing is immortal.

I used to believe my demise would come suddenly, a gunshot death. Dying by bullet is much harder than one might expect. I suffer the extent, as if the metal itself had not been able to kill me due to conscious. Or, perhaps, the gun wanted me to lie here, five hours later, still crying out, and writing. Maybe it had enough decency to allow me some final words. In any prospect, I am here. I am here, and I am trying to live, though the doctors have placed today's expiration date on me with hollow sorrow. I am only one more soul to depart in this bed. I can feel the others comforting me as I fall into nothing.

Before, I had heard death is cold, but I'll tell you something, Stranger {for I am unsure who will be reading this}, it isn't that cold. It's rather nice. What needs to be realized is simply not to fear death, for if you fear death, you do not enjoy life. When it comes to life, some people walk in the rain, while others merely and miserably get wet.

I slip into silence now, as I hold a pencil, it will be the last thing my fingers touch. I hear the quiet, and it blocks all other sounds out as I suppose what they call 'white noise' does. I can taste the end and see my words as they lay out on this paper. The others who have died before in this bed whisper more silence and appease my shaking. I'm dying, I know, and it's alright.




















My last regards,





















Alice Thren"


He read it a second time, then a third… Shaking, the boy closed his eyes. He barely ever cried, and when he did allow it to himself, he wouldn't give the tears the chance to fall. In struggling with himself, he remembered a man whom he had passed his mother's dying words onto two years ago, the words about rain and walking in it. He knew that would be what she wanted, even though she didn't expect her son to ever receive the letter written on her death bed; she hadn't expected anyone to receive her letter.

The timepieces clicked along slowly, not willing to catch up with their time and be right for once. The ticking of the spindly and broken hands throughout the room echoed as water dripping on glass. The crates that cluttered the room in partnership with the clocks took on the gray hue of the walls as the boy saw them though clouded eyes. He blinked away the saltwater rain and stood, folding the letter and slipping it quietly under the unnoticeable crate in the corner where he had retrieved it from.

Discrete, just like the author had gone.