One man sitting on a rock.  Above him three souls; wisps, hovering.  He sighs, and looks yonder:  a wasteland of mist and stone.  Empty.  Silent.  Dead.

He knew better.  He knew more than they.  And still he let them go.  He let them die a fool’s death, all of them.  Could it be stopped?  No.  They were fated.  But fate does nothing to dull the pain of loss.

They haunt around him, of his own choice.  He could lay them to rest; he should.  But who then will give a rest to him?

There is no rest for the weary.


{Exactly 100 words; I need more practice with constraints.}


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