Curae leves loquuntur ingentes stupent - Slight griefs talk, great ones are speechless.
The colour of the sky does not understand, but the stone does. Flat, grey, without hope, it provides a place to stop, and, some say to rest. People are gathered, dressed in mourning darker than the grey upon which they stare. They bow their heads, with silent whispers of prayers learned in childhood, and feel the sorrow of days to come, but can do nothing. The rumbling of engines mark their departure, one by one, as the sun glows brightly, blinding their way.
"Come, boy. Time to leave."
Beads of sweat roll into the boy's eyes and he blames the sun and weakness for his tears.
"Come."
What if he doesn't move? Would time stop moving forward?
"Boy."
He turns, nods his head, and walks toward the handsome cab.
He feels numb, nothing, yet everything has changed inexorably.
