The wall was missing here, a gaping wound where the bomb had gone off. Death clung to the place even as nature reclaimed what had been the domain of man. Dead leaves, moldy with dew and snow, and black rot, and dampness—inescapable dampness.
It was all gone, his escape, his love, his home. Gone and abandoned. Anger welled in him, but he had no one to hate. Winter and a white sky and the coldness of coming night—a breeze cutting through his coat—there was nothing left for him here but more sorrow. Like a world without color.
Tale Told 