He sat down in the chair in the darkness and leaned his arms on the table in front of him. He turned his face to the door. Under the flickering light, his face looked like the figures engraved on the stone walls of dark caverns that hosted men unlike him. Only his eyes moved to watch the insects fly into the room through the door that was slightly ajar and burn themselves in the scorching fire of the kerosene lamp.
Poor creatures, he thought. You throw yourselves into the fire and, for a split second, burnt to death. Then you become a black dot on the table. A simple black dot is what remains of you in the world. You silly, lovely creatures! I remember how I was crazy as you are. I loved what I had never had. I was ready to die to quell the pain that I felt for the thing I never had. Nothing helped, though. Even the war let me down with a half-mended heart. Now it began bleeding out of nothing. Or, out of remembrance.
Through the window, he could see part of the stable and the sullen willow whose high branches slumped over so that it almost looked like a very big umbrella. On the right, stood his bed. And on the bed lay a folded blanket and a high, clean pillow.
In his bedroom, the man sat straight in the chair he pulled by the open window that overlooked a black, cloudy night. He had a small wooden inlaid box on his lap. He could not see what the box held inside it. He did not need to see the content to feel it. This is your last night with me. You will no longer be in daylight. I have to bury you. You should never be known. I am sorry for that. I have to burn you. Oh, I have to bury you. You know I had no other choice. Please forgive me.
The man thought he could get rid of his memories by simply burying them.