The Boy Without A Name

Chapter Thirty-One

One Year Later-

Upon the cenotaph centred around his shattered dreams, worshipped the wind wearily, slightly curving at the cold crunched lifeless leaves around the circumference of his tombstone, whispering sweet condolences around the stilled silence, but the wailing winds of westward vista emitted combinations of cacophony, mourning over his loss as if it meant something to the world. Death paraded in pursuit of the gallant, greatly eliciting wishes from the glorious; cherishing life until ruination, resisting rows of rigorous rancour especially thrown towards them for valour, by the defeatless deceit; only to succumb to the war for mere temptation to sleep sentiently in a bed of roses and thorns, with only a stoned headrest and wisps of moist green grassland, soothing the soul to traverse into the soundless oblivions of Stars.

Death demarcated a depth out of our bounds, impacting, impetuously the human lives, a semblance of solemn tides; channelling all around these pastoral fields of yore, enumerating tales of galore in gold, antiquated with time and told by amber skies of old. Who was he? What was his purpose? Why did he die? Why couldn't we save him? Mellow murmurs used to mesmerise the mausoleum walls when faced with whimpering, wistful sounds from the leisurely living. From lulling lullabies to give him dreams and goals to chanting choirs chorusing to the heavenly hymns and appraising his abode, he was used to the feeling of obliterated embers resonating remnants of his life through someone's pearly pure specks of lament and lores about how he used to be and so.

"If I could turn back tumultuous waves of time, I wouldn't hesitate, just to see you smile. I remember the wildflowers you would greet me with, every day. You claimed it to be a gesture that would make us seem unique, in a way I couldn't understand what you intended to say but you were never good with words, and I know that I have been much of a mess to deal with, but I never imagined it to end this way. Neither of us could see behind your veneered veil of hope, with the only exception of him you know? Now, that he is cured of his dreams, drained of his concerns it seems that certain things are just not meant to be. Love, surely should end with the heart but why is it that he still feels for you? I find it to be foolish, how the heart only pumps blood yet is associated with the endearment of love when it is, the psyche that persists against the ocean tides burdened with calamity and fright, encircling our lives but nevertheless, I seek goodbye. I never had the chance to speak these words, before, because I was afraid, just like him to see you go but now, that I know you are at peace, I think it is best that I should let you go, too, Denver. Though in my memory you'd live and glow, like a firefly festering hope and happiness, goodbye my friend for you will always be a keepsake I have tucked away in the heart and low."

Crumpling the inked paper in her hold, she was irked by her overflowing emotions to let it go but her momentary hesitance was shortlived. Fluttering fluently in the brewing breezes anew, it flew fluorescently away from her and into the fields of fragrant flowerets and butterflies, garnering some gazes of the winged few.

"Are you feeling well?" He implored carefully.

"Yes, I am." She answered, giving him her best smile.

"Shall we go then?" He curiously eyed her before kneading their fingers together as they made their way towards his car.

"When is his plane scheduled to arrive?" She inquired as they made themselves comfortable against their seats.

"In ten minutes or so. You have a running nose, Gwen. You should have brought a handkerchief with you." Thomas gave her a disappointed look.

"I did silly but I had left it at your house." Gwen chuckled at his expression.

"Well, that is your own fault." He quipped as he sped up a bit.

"Tom, could you ever cease with your incessant pestering? God, I hate you so much." She mockingly exclaimed, rolling her eyes at his behaviour.