The world was moving smoothly, perhaps a bit too much. The wind blew like before, the garden and the people, the trees and the seasons remained all the same. For a mere human to die, it was not much. Yet, I continue to be shackled by his presence, bound by a soul no longer alive on this earth, on this planet.

'Haha, that bastard haunts me even after my death - I must be quite the pitiful man, to steal one's body and claim it as my own.' Cassian thought to himself. He was, since he'd 'took over'' his once dear friend's body, always engulfed by guilt and…fear. He'd in a way embraced this reality, much to his dislike.

Cassia sighed, as he turned round to face a mirror. He leaned against it, brushing away 'his' hair for a clearer view of 'his' face. He clenched his jaw, looking at this face made him remember that day, his foolish mistake. Oh, what a fool he was – he is. He let out an exasperated, deep and heavy sigh as he grinned mockingly to himself, taunting.

"Yet, are–were, you not the most pitiful? Poor you, even the closest did not realise the changes in you, did they."

He said, caressing 'his' face on the mirror, narrowed eyes and a gaunt expression. His eyes seemed hollow; expressionless accompanied by a straight face and bleeding lips. Ah, he'd bit too hard. He sighs, yet again. That is all he can do.

He caresses, and caresses the mirror as he ultimately begins to grab it, crumple it causing small cracks in the mirror. He wish he could grab that face and throw it away like any other thing. If only he could. His knuckles had whitened, a strong and firm grip penetrating the mirror, till what remained were mere pieces of the mirror scattered on the ground, soiled with blood. The blood dripped down his hand, a deep crimson red. He could not even claim the blood as his own. Who, was he after all? No matter how hard he tried he could not recall. It seemed as if he was destined to be 'him'. Fate's play is cruel after all, all agree. The scattered pieces of the mirror seemed to taunt him, as he looked down on them each piece reflecting a part of his face.

However, he was not such an ungrateful person that he'd forget his friend's grave. He arrives at the top of a hill, the wind flowing smoothly. Time seemed to stop whenever he visited there, the serene and calmness of nature made him feel, truly, like him. On the grave was a name etched deeply,

||Cassian Venest||

Sure, it was absurd and unpleasant to visit your own grave deeming it as your friend's, but what could he do? After all, he was no longer Cassian Venest, but instead, Earl Doyle. He pulls out a paper flower from god-knows-where, and places it on, you could say in a way, his very own grave. Doyle liked paper flowers after all, since they didn't wilt. Cassian always remembered the small, insignificant seeming things while held the most impact. So far, many paper flowers had accumulated yet never flown away from the wind. Was it resentment while held them?

"If you don't like them, tell me, Doyle" Cassian says in a taunting tone as he scoffs. His tone and eyes are teary alike. He cracks a forced smile.

"I'm not too sure what your favourite flowers were, after all" He says, hand in pocket as he stays there for a while, perfectly still in the gentle breeze. The sunset never seemed so ethereally devastating and petrifying. Cassian would suddenly, out of the blue begin to appreciate small things - mostly in nature, and return to his old self yet again.

He grunts as he finally steps down from the hill, giving it one last glance before he leaves. Just as he turns, the paper flowers fly away with the wind. Oh the poor souls who see, or receive such flowers, I pray for them. He thinks, and then suddenly remembers what he's said and he laughs hysterically in a mocking tone to himself. He held no self-respect to himself, after all, this body wasn't his — and would never be.

"What a cruel way of rejection, Dear Friend." He smiles bitterly.