The results of a flow writing exercise, possibly the beginning of a story. Tell me if it's worth editing/rewriting.

---

Underneath the cold, grey sky, she sobbed slowly on the grasvestone, weeping into the wind of the woes and worries that haunted her heart. “What can be done?” She asked, unanswered. “But what can be done?” And the wind whispered back into her ear, of tales of old and secrets long forgotten and all the revelations ever made on a death bed – but what specifically was imparted can never be known, for to know is to carry; to carry is to bear, and so many in this world cannot. So the wind left behind a burden that day no lighter than the one already in place, and yet the woman was happy, for a reason also unrelateable because of its delicate nature. Not that you cannot be trusted, gentle reader, but I much prefer to leave the dealings of the wind to the wind, and if you must seek such faith, you must do it alone, for I will not help you. But if you truly wish to seek, it is not so hard, for the wind is ever-present and all-knowing, and as such a tricky foe. I must reiterate, I will not help you, but I will not stop you. Perhaps you may be like the woman, one of those in this world who must find their happiness on the wind, breathing in some foreign joy, because they have been completely drained of their own. Such is heady but unhealthy. Be warned, then; the wind is easy; the weight is not.

Still, I seem to ramble worse than my subject, and thus must return to the poor woman. We find her drying the last of her tears and expressing part of some foreign smile, brown curls twisting around her ears and bright green eyes shining, whether from true emotion or the worst kind of refuge, I cannot say. Blooming or broken, hopeful or helpless, it is not for me to judge. I am the humble narrator, and can only tell what was.

This, then, is the point I must get to: there was no body in the grave. Oh, there was a name scratched haltingly, heartlessly into the heavy stone marker, and fresh new grass seeds scattered on the sloping sides of the mound – but no poor shell resided within.

The woman knew this; that much is certain. She knew what emptiness lay below her, what dark crevice remained unoccupied. But like so many others of her kind – that is to say, the mourners – she found comfort in familiar symbolism that might eventually one day allow her to grasp ghastly news, dreadful ideas, that she could not stand or wait to know.

Aside, I suppose that may be why the wind was such a comfort to her, that other people’s lives and sorrows may serve to stem the tide of sadness and blot out her own sufferings. Of course, never having turned to the wind myself, in such a situation at least, I cannot know quite what its effect might be here.

Perhaps some day you will tell me, for she never will.

And here we must leave her for a moment, alone over the empty grave, and visit a sight which, I sadly confess, can hardly be deemed a much happier one. A young boy on a hillside, wooden whistle in hand, and rain to blot out the sky. Spread out before him, the old trainyard, still and shining dully in the tin-tinted light. I know not what he played, but that it mingled in the air and curled around itself, to some, utterly majestic; to others, devastatingly decrepit. It rose above his head in a cloud of steam and soft silvery feathers and spread across the sky. I know that it is here, above another, perhaps even more hauntingly silent sort of resting place – here that the woman’s tears traveled on the wind to merge and weave with the whistler’s tune, in a last longing memory of what once was and never shall be again. For nothing ever repeats and there can be no again in anything, if time indeed marches on and history is written in stone. Just as each moment is created anew, so each joy or sorrow, each tune or tear must blossom and die alone.

These, then, are the fragments lost to us on the wind, until a stranger stumbles into them and makes them a part of something new. With these fragments, we exchange pieces of our souls with people all around the world.