Once he dared to dream, but no more. A hollow, bitter, sullen, angry old man, he is filled with more pain than hate; tormented by painful memories the good ones have been choked and died away. No one takes pity upon him, except himself, and even then it's a small trickle compared to the torrential flood it used to be. If his tale were told perhaps someone would take pity on this poor creature; perhaps he might know a bit of joy and happiness in his waning years, and move on to the next life with a smile instead of a scowl.

I see now the cruel blow dealt so many years ago, when he was still young and hopeful. He was not without his quirks; even then he was a hard one to get along with. He was quiet and withdrawn, and never sure of himself. I suspect he was picked on as child, bullied by those bigger and stronger than him, but whatever the reason he would often retreat into his shell when challenged by another boy, and so rarely expressed his feelings one took note of it and felt special.

Had I known then what I see now I would have stayed the blow which doomed this man. I did not think one act could create such a response in a man, but I did not know the fertile soil within his soul ripe and ready to make a curmudgeon. Had I known his delicate disposition, had I known how fragile his inner self was, I would not have spurned him as I did. Perhaps it is the doom of my sex, but I was silly and stupid. I thought to make him jealous; I thought to make him sorry for hurting my feelings. I thought he would come running to me and apologize, and in my stupid wisdom I forbade myself from acting until he made the first move. It never came.

I did not know a rough exterior could hide a broken heart on the verge of destruction. My words still ring in my ears; to think how they must have cut him brings me to pain beyond tears. To have the only person you ever opened up to betray that beautiful trust and use it to wound you is an act unforgivable. I have tried to repair the damage; I have longed to see him smile once again, yearned for his passionate laughter, but my resources are limited. All I can do is observe and remain by his side, unheard and unseen.

I was still flirting, trying to arouse his manly jealousy, when tragedy struck. There was a violent storm, and our oak tree proved too old and tired to withstand it. As it fell to its death it brought about my demise. It was a freak accident; only I was harmed. My parents took it hard, but none was as devastated as him. After all these years I still wait for him. Some day he will join me. Maybe then his smile will return; maybe then he'll shed his bitter shell and laugh once more; maybe then I can tell him how much I still love him.