A statue.
That was what he was becoming. He laughed at the notion but his laughter wasn't filled with humour. Bitterness and unease had settled heavily in his chest. The longing and loneliness in his being had only grown with his stay.
Perhaps he would turn to stone, this obelisk claiming him as part of itself.
He laughed again, laughed at the idea that she would come long after that, ever vigil in his search for her return. She might weep then, or maybe even celebrate. Either way, it would be cruel.
Father Time would wear away at him, then.