As the misty red-orange nimbus surrounded the horizon, he gazed at the full moon, beautified by dark spots on its silver face. Leaves of palm trees rustled as wind brushed along them. The silence of the scintillation of the only visible star was broken by cheerful voices. The very street, which now held ten glad children enjoying cricket with lots of chaotic applauds, was the witness of the reason of the silence of himself. Of his life.
The sudden electricity failure gave way to darkness of rooms, as his sudden mistakes had given to his life. Pacing the street, he noticed a small child playing with a flower. As he returned to her after a few minutes, he found her happily looking at other children, while the petals that had their abode in the palm of hers lay crushed under her feet. She did not realise it at first. And when she did, nothing was left except tears.
But that could never be restored, what had been lost, crushed and withered.
Just like someone had, softly, left him, to be crushed by the world. And nothing remains in him but she, which he has untiringly protected from the world. And still he fails to know why he did all that which turned him unworthy of her care. He guesses he would never know.