A train chugged along silently in the night, carrying two passengers alone; only one of the two was among the living, the other simply an empty vessel abandoned by its owner.


Outside, the harsh winter chill nipped at the air fiercely. The moonlight, obscured by heavy storm clouds, shone faintly only through a small break in the sky, illuminating the lone train roaming the desolate countryside. In the distance, a knell rang out, lonesome in its singularity. The single living passenger cringed inwardly, all the while cradling the dead man. The sound echoed back and forth, a morbid dissonance chiming a sad, soft cry for mercy. Only, mercy did not exist in this world, a world where even the sound of the wind sounded like a dirge. It had been beaten into nonexistence by the violent fist of society, replaced by a cold blood lust that could never be satisfied.


As the eleventh hour drew nearer and nearer, the train came to a sudden halt beside a field of lilies. The flowers seemed to mock the small boy as he fled the icy interior of the train, only to be slapped by the sheer brutality of winter’s fury. The boy did not bring the felled man with him.


He fought back bitter tears as he trudged through the field, the only soul within miles. Each lily, exactly the same as the last, was only a callous reminder of his bleak past and all the wrongs yet to be made right. And then, in a clearing, there sat a beautiful rose, its thorns sharp and lively. As he drew closer to the rose, the little boy noticed that each petal was stained a silky black, the color of the night sky at midnight. Gently, he bent down and grasped the blossom’s stem in his exposed palm, wincing at a sharp sting; a thorn had caught his finger, drawing a trail of blood. A single drop of his vitality gleamed on the tip of the thorn before dripping onto the moist soil below.


Carefully this time, the young boy yanked the black rose from the ground and cradled it in his hands. It was the most beautiful thing he’ ever had the pleasure of seeing, even considering the fact that it had already been tainted by a world he vowed to leave behind. But as he stared in wonderment, the flow of blood from the jagged cut on his hand grew greater, and as the petals made contact with the red liquid, they began to wither and die. Before long, the rose was a shriveled pile of foliage, forgotten over time.

The boy was now gone, like he had imploded and blown away with the wind. All that remained was a single drop of blood in the middle of an empty field, a scar in the dry earth that not even time could heal at this point.


A train chugged along silently in the night, carrying two passengers alone; only one of the two was among the living, the other simply an empty vessel abandoned by its owner. A knell rung sorrowfully, and the young woman on board clung on tighter to the motionless form beside her.

I’m so sorry, she thought contritely. I’m so sorry.