Rain skittered and popped across the battered window. The trees and foliage bowed respectfully before the lull of the wind, letting it caress the fragile house the window belonged to before blowing past it. The air was cool and soft, tangling with the rain as it dropped on the house with a sweet rhythm.
Inside the house, a face peeked from underneath a hood and a bed sheet it had been hiding under. Pale blue eyes gazed on the scene outside with serene curiosity. The eyes belonged to a boy, barely 17 and already dying. He had left his home behind to find a quiet place to die, not one filled with drugs, abuse, and hate. He struggled to find a place to stay before he found the house, as broken down and abandoned as he was.
The insects and birds played a bittersweet dirge.
The flowers wept.
The trees bowed.
The rain sang his eulogy.
He knew he'd found a good place to die.
And so, as he watched how the rain ran down the plants outside his window, how each drop gave itself to the plant silently and willingly, he smiled for the first time in years.
He laid his head back on the pillow, burying himself in the sheets and his hoodie until all he could see was the gray light spilling from the clouds onto his final resting place.
He felt content.
It became a good place to die.