Road not Taken.

In the obscure recess of his window, Chris watched the day's final act - the sun, now a crimson disc, sinking behind the jagged skyline. The sea moaned under the relentless caress of the wind, its icy fingers sending shivers down his spine. The trees, like ancient sentinels, rustled their leaves in a spectral dance, their branches parting to reveal glimpses of the moon's stolen radiance.

Above him, nocturnal herrings traced silver arcs across the sky as they returned to their nests. But their ballet was short-lived. Clouds, like mourners at a wake, gathered to shroud the moon's brilliance. The world was plunged into an abyss, save for the ghostly streaks that dared to defy the night. The wind's lament echoed through this tableau, a chilling serenade to solitude.

Retreating from this scene, Chris sought refuge in his chair where his guitar lay in silent anticipation. His fingers danced over the strings, coaxing out melodies that filled his humble abode. Each note was a testament to his life - tales of love and loss, joy and sorrow, hope and despair.

Yet as he played into the wee hours of the night, his music couldn't drown out the gnawing emptiness within him. His reality was a solitary existence in a world that seemed indifferent to his plight.

His song ended and he looked at his guitar - worn and weathered like an old friend. It was his solace in this lonely world. He held it close and whispered a heartfelt "Thank you."

But he wasn't as alone as he thought. From a dark corner of the window, a figure watched him. She listened to his music, her heart resonating with each note. She saw his face - a canvas of raw emotion - and in his grief, she found understanding.

The wind howled with savage fury, its voice a lamenting song for what might have been. Chris played on. And when he closed his eyes and fell into a fitful sleep, hoping to find some peace in his dreams, his mother Garrisa still stood by the window as if drawn by the woes upon which Chris's strings spoke. Dread residing upon her face for perhaps she knew the depth of despair that consumed him.

With furtive steps, she crept into his chamber and laid her exhausted frame upon his bed. She softly touched his fingers as if to rouse him from his slumber but something stayed her hand. Something like a smooth and furry paw had grasped her wrist and held it fast.

Now she rose with a start and darted to the door and turned the knob with care and opened it a crack. "May the Lord watch over you," she whispered as she left. And in her head, she heard the Song of Fear a low and sorrowful tune that chilled her very blood.

And when the wind howled at the trees like a pack of wolves when Garrisa writhed and moaned on the couch in her dismal parlor sleepless and restless. She whispered to herself "Why can't I banish him from my mind?" She pressed her temples seeking to soothe the ache that pounded in her head.

She heard the footsteps outside her door — faint yet distinct — and deemed them but a dream. Yet soon a well-known perfume filled her chamber, and the heavy tramp upon the sand betrayed his presence. It was he — he who could not sleep, nor rest, nor breathe, but left his couch and wandered to the shore, and there he sat upon the gnarled roots of a gigantic tree, his eyes fixed northward as if gazing on the invisible.

Silence reigned around him as he lingered there amid the dying night, and only the low dirge of the roaches and the crickets broke the stillness as if they too were conscious of the woe that wrung his bosom.

And in those dying nights, he rose and walked back to his chamber and laid his dying soul to rest and when the morning crumbled by,

He woke up with a jolt, his heart forging in his chest. He looked around the dim room, trying to flash back to where he was. The walls were covered with bills of his fave bands, faded and torn, cluttered with books, some of them open and some of them closed. His guitar leaned against the closet, silent and fine. He was in his own room, but it felt like a captivity.

He got up from his bed and walked to the window, feeling the cold air on his face. He pulled the curtains and saw the moon shining on the water. A surge of emotion sweeping over him- anguish, rage, and craving all mixed together.

He flashed back the last time he saw his father, the day he left for his last trip. He saw him in his mind, how he smiled and gestured at him from the boat. How he promised to come back soon and bring him a gift. How he sailed down into the horizon, where the sky and ocean met. He decided to go to the sand, to face the water that tortured him. He put on his jacket and walked to the reinforcement. The water touched his bases, cold and wet. He looked at the horizon, where his father had faded.

He felt a swell of wrathfulness also. He wanted to yell at the water, to condemn it for what it had done. And now he sat there, strumming his guitar to soothe himself. But it wasn't long before he heard a voice behind him- a voice he'd missed- that sweet little voice of his angel.