The bathroom was gloomy and desolate. Wind-drawn leaves adorned the floor with the usual muck that came in from shoes and the like. He stood there facing the mirror; a look on his face that could have been doubt or depression. He looked at his brown hair; his gray steel eyes, and the growing shadow on his chin.

This is me without you.

He pulls out a picture of his sadness: the face of a smiling woman. The smell of her brown hair prevailed in his memory. It was the smell of the wind blowing through her hair, and how it emulated the smell of jasmine and honeysuckle. He held a Polaroid photo from the vintage camera Jill—the girl in the photo— had given to him on his birthday.

He stared at the image, still captivated by her beauty. Still saddened by her loss.

It’s been a month now since he found her note.

You’re worthless.

You and your stupid band.

You and your stupid music.

You and your stupid songs.

You didn’t realize I was fucking gone.

Her clothes were all gone, except for the leather jacket he had given her for her birthday. In it was the note. She had never been this mad.

He almost came close to punching the mirror in front of him. He sighed and put back the Polaroid into his jacket pocket. A tear formed in his eye.

He stepped outside, into the light. The fog was there, and the sun that would have shined lay sleeping in this pale blanket.

Silent Hill lay ahead; its strange presence calling out to him.

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