January 2, 2013
It was the twilight of evening when the winter leaves were seen whirling lazily about the streets and people, painting a thin layer of auburn as they danced away to the frigid instrumentation of the cold winter wind. People ran hither and thither, burying themselves even deeper within their coats and scarves and the warm rays of the sun began to slowly fade away.
Against the host of flurrying individuals, there was the musical man, who sat motionless at the bench, his back bent over while his fingers continued to gently strum the chords of his guitar. Even as the chestnut leaves continued to fall upon him, he remained still, seemingly finding it unnecessary to shake them off. Instead, his fingers continued to instrument the same melancholy tone repeatedly, as if it was the only melody that his fingers could produce. Feeling his fingers raw, he stopped and stared over to his side. There laid a white sheepdog, which, like him, was buried under the leaves.
Smiling faintly for the briefest moment, he closed his eyes and recalled the name of the person that was, at one time, his everything, but now instead, was the sole source of his greatest agony. Hongki
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