Once upon a time there was a dragon. Its scales glimmered with the light of the unknown, its eyes glowed with the clear sparkling turquoise of the ocean surface, and the fire that flew from its mouth shimmered with icy heat. Yet this orange inferno was a rare thing from this dragon's mouth; for the dragon never had call to breathe fire. Rings of blue-gray smoke might rise from its nose, but not fire.

The dragon lived in an isolated cave far from most of society; but it ventured from its home freely and frequently, sailing aloft with widespread wings over the craggy hilltops and dipping into grassy valleys. Its world was one of beauty, of purity, and it reveled in the simple sweetness of a clean pink flower or a new-opened leaf.

Then, one day, a thick murky cloud drew over the dragon's paradise. Dark rain fell and sullen light cast a dreary spell on the cave. The sun, formerly bright, was veiled behind a dark wall, and the pink flowers wilted.

The dragon was afraid. No pure light burned through to save the declining plants on the formerly sunny hillsides, no light save for gray bathed the cave in warmth, and the very air was dead and dim. Leaves, fresh and green just days before, let loose from their branches and fluttered down to cover the dying grass in brown. The trunks of trees formerly laden with fruits and foliage stood out black in a gray world.

Life was dying. The dragon knew it, saw it all as it stood in the mouth of its cold home and looked out on the bleak world. But it did nothing, could do nothing, for the dimness suffocated everything. The gray light induced gloomy illness, and the damp air enforced it. Isolated and alone, the dragon awaited death. Reptilian tears of pearl dripped slowly from its eyes onto the dingy floor.

Because it knew that there was no such thing as a happy ending.