A pocket watch with the time stopped dead…

He takes it in his palms. Its hands no longer move and its gears no longer turn. Its face is cold and pale, much as his, and it looks up to the heavens as the rain falls outside. The darkness falls, and all goes quiet. His breath is silent, as is the ghost of the pocket watch, and all that is heard is the rain.

A black wax candle to light the darkness…

The watch is set aside, its face cries in the shadows of the moon. He takes a match in hand and he strikes it. It hisses to life, and all his hope goes to the small flame, his eyes open wide. The flame kisses the candle's wick, and it too becomes alight. It casts shadows on the wall, fighting with all its might to keep the darkness of night away, and all that is heard is the rain.

A fountain pen with the ink capped tight…

He goes to the desk, and sits. He reaches for the pen and the well. The ink is uncapped, and some is poured, and he sits down to write. The cork lies lazily upon the lip of the bottle, the ink slowly, thickly, creeping down the insides, meeting the pool resting at the bottom. His gaze draws from it, from the ink to the pen, then to the paper as words are then formed. The pen scrawls on the parchment, the shadows jump on the wall, and now his focus is moved, no longer to the sound of the rain.

A sketchbook of drawings of people unknown…

His fingers are long and elegant. Her body bends in gentle design. They are the people He longs for, as a second notebook He chooses, the pen He sets aside. In the painting, his strong hands hold her up from falling, and her eyes glimmer as she looks to him. He looks at her lovingly and she returns the glance as they pause for a moment in their dance.

A silver chain for a lovely neck…

He reaches to a drawer as he remembers. He had hid it under his book. That chain she wore each morning, and the clasp she unfastened each night. He holds it in his trembling hands, the silver dim, in need of polish. He holds the thing close to his yearning heart, crying as he remembers the pain. Her face, it comes to his mind, a breeze on a summer's evening. He wants to tell her he loved her, but his voice is lost in the rain.

A dried rose for a love long gone…

And also there, with a yellow ribbon wrapped tight around, was a withered rose. Once as red as blood itself and brittle as a dry bone. He held it by its wasted stem and took it to the candle. The bright orange flame danced on the dusty surface and consumes the dried petals until to ash it turned as he cried and cried goodnight.

Handwritten drafts of stories that have never been shared…

Also bound by a buttery-coloured ribbon is a stack of yellowed papers. The edges are torn, the papers bent, but they remain untouched. He wants to sift through them, reading the scrawling words she wrote, but he can't bring himself to do it. To touch, to read, to love, the words that had never been read.

The favourite book, read when alone…

And finally, as he set aside the precious things, he takes the leather bound book and holds it in his hands. One more thing he has of hers, one more thing that causes his pain. Her favorite book, from back to front, the pages loved so dearly. He took it too, one last time, as he listened to the rain.