It was merely the latest stumble and still the fall that Spring had seemed, among all the green and growing things, a final defeat. He collapsed, bleeding not so much from some physical wound as seeping the rage he had pretended not to know was there.
Leaking the sorrow he had refused to acknowledge, tears fell like last night's rain. But there, upon his knees, he could could not deny the relief of a timeless truth beyond the break, a second sun within the shattering.
What does your soul remember? What story of life is alive in you?