That Guy Who Died. He Isn't Dead Yet.

He isn't dead because nobody knows it's true. A member of our community who didn't connect with anyone, and who didn't have any friends, but he was always here and we just never noticed him. Cats5422 probably.

He would be reading on the swing set by the train tracks. It would be a fantasy novel--something from the religious library he'd pick up with both a medievil fantasy influence as well as a flair of religion. He'd wager a bet with himself that he couldn't walk the train tracks across the steep, steep hill that banks on either side of the small train bridge. It would be the bravest thing he could think to do. And no train would go by, and the tracks wouldn't rumble, but he'd fall off anyways and land in the autumn leaves of the underpass beneath. And nobody would find him and he'd be there beneath the high, high tracks. His legs would be broken, and he would cry so hard he couldn't even read his book. He'd still be holding the book. And he'd just be gone forever, because he'd never tell anyone about the swings by the train tracks. It would be his place for him alone.

A man at the library would look for the book, but the library would just have to tell him somebody had it out and that it was overdue. And his mother would make lemonade. She'd probably do it today, and then again tomorrow too. It was Cats5422's favourite. He liked to read while drinking lemonade, so his mother made some for him as often as she could. She still does. She has no idea where he is, and neither do we.