[the sun is setting, when he decides to go out on the lake. it streaks the sky and the water with color, something he notes as he walks out to the shrine. it's beautiful, as the weather has been - but it touches him no more than a simple pretty picture.
he's not the first to leave something, and he won't be the last, but these flowers won't go and put themselves in the shrine - spring blooms that have lost none of their vibrancy, that offer up color and scent and life as a token of what has been. some might like to be remembered like this.
and, sitting down in the shrine, there's a bottle in his hand that he's been slowly filling over a few days - it's decently filled with wine, and he can think of a few who might want to be recalled with a drink instead. taking a mouthful, he swallows it down, and finds himself smiling, just a touch.
out here on his own? it's natural for him to start humming, settling into the mood. and then from there, to singing. something sweet and measured, just because he can.]
4.
he's not the first to leave something, and he won't be the last, but these flowers won't go and put themselves in the shrine - spring blooms that have lost none of their vibrancy, that offer up color and scent and life as a token of what has been. some might like to be remembered like this.
and, sitting down in the shrine, there's a bottle in his hand that he's been slowly filling over a few days - it's decently filled with wine, and he can think of a few who might want to be recalled with a drink instead. taking a mouthful, he swallows it down, and finds himself smiling, just a touch.
out here on his own? it's natural for him to start humming, settling into the mood. and then from there, to singing. something sweet and measured, just because he can.]