What a blissful scene tonight, atop this reasonably small mound of a hill. A hill with soft and gentle grass. Eloquent flowers, the colour of a bee’s yellow, and brown like the oak tree’s mighty shaft.
A sunset struck sky above, projecting a magical, sparkly pink like glitter, through the rows of long thin clouds, only spoken of in fairy tales. Pale orange light of the setting sun reflects onto the hill, making the grass glisten with gorgeous, artistic colours of the sun.
Leaves of autumn sit stationary on the somber, brown trunk of a small oak tree, of past adventures. The shaft bent in an odd, yet aesthetic manner. Few leaves dance in the soft wind blowing pleasantly, with light whistles like the birds of spring morn.
Underneath this gloomy tree, stands an old, short man, dressed in twine coat and pants with a cool brown fedora atop his balding head. However, this elderly man is no longer enjoying the sights of this blissful evening. Instead he stares with sadness, confusion and dread, at the single aspect of his life he loved the most, fall to her knees, in deathly exhaustion.
The man runs desperately, tripping over himself, down the hill to aid the gentle, elderly woman with placid gray hair, who wears a cardigan of candy floss pink. She looks up at the man and smiles a timid and nervous smile. The last smile.