It is fall. The melancholy that Keane feels matched the sadness of the environment. He walked slowly at the bed of dead leaves and branches with things going around his head. Very troubled, he was. The crackles of the dead leaves and twigs, the wind, the soft unknown music that plays in his head were the symphony Keane was uncontrollably hearing. His hair was blocking his view, and from time to time, you can see those gloomy eyes. How sad those eyes were, looking through it you can see his crying soul, yet you can see no tears.

Another twig cracked, and then suddenly, time stopped. He can no longer hear the sound of dead leaves, or the twigs, or the cool breeze that touches his face, so softly. And there, Carla was, long hair covering her face. She stood there waiting, with her equally sad eyes with a certain look of mourning.

Keane got nearer, and in his mind, that sad, sad music played.

Their eyes met. Keane saw a little leaf that landed itself on Carla’s soft lips. Gently, he wiped it with his thumb, with other fingers gently resting on her chin. Carla closed her eyes. Keane saw this, and slowly he leaned forward, his lip a quarter of an inch away from hers. Keane came into his senses. He pulled back, leaving Carla stunned and clueless. Keane turned his back from Carla. He heard Carla’s silent sobs, but he walked on. He started walking again. The sound of Carla’s cries grew larger, and he knew she was already seated at the bed of browning leaves. Keane, with his sad eyes, never looked back. He just continued walking and walking in the middle of nowhere.