The northern weather changed again as snow began to fall. In a quiet corner of a road, a boy lay, softly singing a melody woven from four tales.

The most prominent tale was one of sorrow, a soft and muted lament about all that was missing. As if responding, the snowflakes danced around the boy, avoiding his touch for fear of interrupting his music and leaving a clear, unblemished patch of earth.

If a crowd were present, they would have cried out the same question: "Why?" A friend, if there were one, would have been silent, unsure of the appropriate words to offer but even more frightened of what could not be expressed in such a moment.

Anyone close by would have heard the boy speak, uttering phrases both strange and unexpected for a child to say.

Amid his sadness, an oddity could be noticed. With his stubby fingers deftly manipulating the strings, a captivating rhythm emerged, transforming into a haunting melody.

The boy fumbled with the lute, yet as if in a dreamlike state, he played what his father referred to as a "twilight melody," unaware of its ethereal beauty. And this was the second tale.

About a dream buried in the dimness and, in irony, about his haunting rise in the eventide of this fateful day.

The third tale was not an easy thing to notice. If one listened closely for a while, they might begin to comprehend its meaning, but if they did, they would wish they hadn't.

The words, born of unbridled fury, would have sliced through their throats, driving them away. Yet, if they chose to stay, they would remain silent, not because they lacked the words to speak but to avoid facing the boy.

As long as they remained still, they would be safe. And they would stand there, not out of reverence for the boy's delicate form but because the tale consumed their souls with each word, stripping away their fragile perception of themselves. The image, which they would swear to anyone, grinding their teeth if necessary, was their life and their meaning.

The boy had jet-black hair, as dark as obsidian, standing in stark contrast to his surroundings. His swollen eyes held a distinct emerald gleam.

Distant and void, he moved with a muted conviction that his life had been deceived. As though he were unconsciously willing to overcome his tragedy, his body was poised with determination.

This fourth tale was his own—a culmination of the others, a grand tapestry of lament that wove his story into its depths.

It was as heavy as the betrayal of a loved one. It was the anguished voice of a young person, waiting to die not from illness but from a lack of the will to live.

As if in response to his cries, the boy's body crumpled in the snow, creating a serpentine trail of red against the white. His arms were shattered and his feet swollen.

A long, broad line of blood ran across his chest. His once mesmerizingly long hair was now marred with imperfections and missing strands. There he lay, a young boy, lost in the light, with no one around to heed his pleas.