The need to type made her fingers twitch so she set them to the keys, not knowing what words would appear there, not knowing what stories or poems or thoughts would flow through her like water, just typing to release.

She was dying. No one would say it, but they all knew. It tore them apart inside, but they knew the truth. It hurt to look at her, to see the truth so clearly in her dying eyes. She was fading away, and not a soul on earth could save her except herself, or perhaps the one she pined for. But no one came, and she spoke not a word. Dozens of doctors were called, but they all said the same thing- she was wasting away, and there was nothing they could do to help her. She would take neither food nor drink. She only sat at the window, day after day, staring out at the world. Her eyes were ancient with pain and despair, eyes too old for her youthful face. Looking into those eyes could terrify you, to see that much pain inside a person burning to get out, and you wondered how she could sit there, silent, and not scream and scream to release the pain, and then you realized she was already dead. You were looking at a living corpse, waiting for death to take her away from the pain of living.

The women plied her with tea and blankets, flitting about uselessly and wringing their hands in despair; the men recognized their worthlessness and retreated to the bars, returning in the early hours of the morning quietly drunk beyond all feeling. They didn’t want to feel. She never moved from the window, her dry vacant eyes constantly staring out at the road that led to her house, staring, waiting, waiting for a rider who would never come. She never cried- her pain was too great to cry, and she held it inside and bid it take her with it. Her lips never smiled or spoke, despite the pleading of her aunts and relatives. She had lost any will to live. Her once lustrous hair hung lank and limp around her shoulders, because she could not be bothered to wash it. Her once bright eyes were dull and empty because she took no pleasure in life any longer. Her beauty faded, her skin pale from lack of sunlight. She grew painfully thin, her gray eyes wide in her narrow face and devoid of any feeling as they stared out at the empty road.

When she died, no one was surprised. The funeral was on a dark, dreary day, the sky as gray as her eyes. A cold, persistent drizzle kept everything damp and chilled as if the heavens themselves were in mourning. Many tears were shed, for she had been greatly loved, and things were said- yes things were said. “Such a shame,” from friends of the family, “So young.” “If I get my hands on he that did this…” spoken from her many youthful admirers. Things were said. But mostly the people just moved about slowly, silently dealing with their grief in their own way. The very air seemed to be hurting, and no one was in a hurry to do anything. Friends attempted to console her family, people spoke of a better place, and being at peace, and how the pain would lessen with time. It had to lessen with time.

As the ceremony ended and the grievers moved inside, one man stood alone by the grave, hands buried in his pockets, the cold rain pounding down on his thin body. He was a slender dark shape over the fresh grave, and most mourners barely noticed him as they moved inside to avoid the rain. After several moments of looking out a window, an old woman walked back up the hill and silently offered him her umbrella in companionable grief. He turned on her with such fire in his eyes as if his heart had shattered in his chest. The woman retreated in fear and returned inside, still clutching the rejected umbrella. He stood alone, the rain dripping down his thin coat and soaking him, but he couldn’t feel the cold. He was numb with pain. He stood at the grave until dark, tears running down his face mixing with the icy rain.