Flash Fiction

He walked through the garden of the dead, the pungent wildflowers toppling over the fallen headstones.  It matched his mood, chaotic and overgrown.  He sat down on a hard stone bench, like him, crumpled with age.  Above in the rampant sky a hawk wheeled.

He sat immobile, thinking of eternity.  He watched people come and go, some he recognised, some he did not.  He remained unobserved by all but the hawk.  Eventually he tired and lay down to sleep.  The hawk fell, spiralling, from the darkening sky and came to rest by his head.  He slept.

Then the rains came.