He looked at Sun. It was about to set. He could hear the music. It was heart wrenching.
He had given ten prime years of his life to the band. But today he was irrelevant; as irrelevant as dry leaves floating aimlessly in cold air. Why? What was his fault? Did he deserve this fate?
He looked at Sun. It had set. He could still hear the music.
Suddenly he felt that this could not be the end. No, it can’t end like this.
He looked at trees, in autumn they looked beautiful. He smiled. Sun would rise.
Word count 98
This post is part of Friday Fictioneers by Rochelle Wisoff