The winter grass, as it was turning brown, looked up once with moist eyes. It rained last night, just before the moon came out. A strong breeze let the yellowed leaves accompany the grass. The trees looked unclothed though.
He was sitting at his veranda with still eyes. There is no thrill in the cold. It is surprising that there were people around once. Now that they have hit the road to the warm, the courtyard looked desolate.
No one called him as they were leaving. None at all. And he as quite as ever did nothing beyond watching them leave. They left to live, he sighed and wished for another life where winter would be sacrificed, rain would be exotic, and if nothing at all, then at least he will be more than dead. A life of purple and fragrance rather than the sleep of dark.