The year of 2494 found sunny hills and colorful grassy wonderlands in the peak of a windy June. The air, though leaf-strewn, was clear and reeked of sweet honey. A myriad of flowerfields painted the scenery something psychedelic; for masses of the multicolored hues stretched far over a seemingly infinite plane that surely expanded far beyond the horizon. The sky was tinted like that of a delicate pastel dream and train tracks weaved through dunes of grass and flowers like a slithering snake, and formed what looked like a labyrinth of wiggly rails. Far below, under the fragmented shade of a young apple tree, a little yellow songbird perched on an even littler finger sang songs of joy when presented a tiny raisin. The wee child smiled gummily from ear to ear, elated at the sight of the tiny creature munching chirpily on his raisin. His friends were playing hide-and-go-seek a couple yards away, their small, pudgy faces alight with glee while his teacher enjoyed a pleasant novel sat on the picnic basket they had used for lunch a few hours ago. Nothing can possibly go wrong this time, giggled the child as he snuck a cheeky glance at his little animal friend. Right? Mr. Birdie cocked his tiny yellow head then, completely oblivious to the black storm clouds slowly but surely inching their way into the soft, tranquil scene. The child eventually found himself nodding away into a deep slumber.

Hours went by in a flash. The boy woke to find empty fields and flowers swaying in the wind; but no friend or teacher in sight. He'd checked his surroundings, sweaty hands clenching on nothing but air. Even Mr. Birdie was gone! The afternoon sun glared down at the poor child through the brittle branches of the apple tree with its red, fiery rays which forced him to shade his squinted eyes with his two little hands. A light breeze brushed through his bangs, making them drift somewhat eastward. The boy his little heel, still squinting, and kept turning and turning again and again until he confirmed that, very strangely, there was absolutely no soul in sight. A crow chirped squeakily somewhere far away in the distance.

He pursed his chapped little lips and called out into the empty grassland with all the might his tiny body could muster. "Hello?" He waited, until beads of sweat pooled in the inner corners of his eyes and the soles of his mud-slicked feet started to ache, but ultimately no such answer came back. The breeze blew across him again, equally as cold and foreboding; albeit being a teeny bit stronger this time. The child tried again, and again, and again, until his throat was screamed sapless and his eyes pricked with something salty. And still, the stubborn lull roared back at him with a ferocity that seemed to deafen even the sound of even his panic-stricken howls. 

He had felt it then; an angry stir, albeit intricately miniscule, accompanying the beats of his fragile, blue heart. It was exhilirating in the sickest way; the boy had felt his whole being pulse and convulse with a piercing energy so potent his lithe form had almost doubled over completely. I can't...! The gasp was squeezed out of him, his consciousness realizing a little too late as a strong gale of pure wind whooshed out from the palms of his trembling hands, which were folded pitifully tight around his bony frame. The firm gust whisked and spread forcibly around him, making the long grass surrounding him almost completely fold over. I shouldn't! He shouted again, in pain this time, as a particularly strong throb caused an even heftier gale to be extorted from him; completely ripping off long stretches of surrounding grass and flowers. ! The child swore viciously, albeit inaudible amongst the clamor of the menacing swirls of wind.

The sky had been littered with storm clouds of varying shapes and sizes then; and the struggling boy looked up and gasped, the familiar scene flashing by his mind all too fast and all too well. He clamped his skinny sides with his sullied palms as hard as he was able in a desperate but futile attempt to stop the raging gale within him. A third and fourth blast of wind left the boy breathless, as he could do aught and watched the windy hell wreak havoc on the apple trees; yanking them out of the ground and hurling them off to God-knows-where like a silent, violent beast. The sight of flying trees and branches and multi-colored apples had gleamed red in his eyes, engraving upon his heart a fear so loud it might as well had been Hades himself 

Just then, he heard loud, peppy voices in the distance and the fast pat-pat-patting of tiny boots; all coming towards him. He whipped his pained face towards the source of the sound, finding the worried faces of his little classmates locked onto a fragile him; standing in the middle of a huge, barren circle of uprooted trees and dead leaves. You guys!  His tear-stained face had contorted into one of happiness, but the swirling in his heart had mistranslated the feeling into that of the darkest hate. Fear drummed deafeningly in his ears then, as he was stopped abruptly in his tracks, watching helplessly as his many innocent friends neared him; shouting his name in high-pitched calls of worry. No! His lip trembled as one familiar but incredibly blurry face had come into eye contact with him. That tiny face, which belonged to someone he was no longer able to attach a name to, scrunched up his button nose and parted his lips to say words he was no longer able to recognize. Run! All of you!  He begged, but no words came out. His friends had surrounded him; and shivering, he had felt the final signals of what was to be a blinding catastrophe. Please... He breathed a breath that might as well been his last as his vision gyrated and spun, instantly giving way to a numbing darkness. The last he saw of that cute, pudgy face was the striking fear in his cerulean eyes and the silent scream his tiny lips had mouthed as the massive tornado had torn him from the ground and consumed him whole.

There, on the broken ground lay a single soul, cracked, but not gone. The soul reeked a foulsome flavor of dark, dark regret; one so mighty and strong it might as well have originated in the deadly depths of the Underworld. Its story was dried blood under fingernails, violent skies and lost wars. Its every day was a hellish journey on a fast train which would always, in one way or another, end up in a blasted crash. A train wreck, with its last compartment slowly hanging off the edge of doom, swaying back and forth, silently wavering in the air like a firefly upon its last day of light. And some days were just a tiny bit brighter, when the sun garnered enough nerve to peek out from its veil of shadowed clouds in the face of terror; or when the damned train manages to end its journey safely on the end of the station in one piece.
 
Usually though, that doesn't happen.
On this particular day we find