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Ominis was tired. So tired. Every day he fought through endless suffocating darkness. The pain had stopped. There was only numbness now. He was incapable of feeling, of feeling anything anymore. Of doing anything. And then it occurred to him; what was he fighting for? Struggling on and on to live for? He had nothing left to do. Nothing to give. No one cared. Everyone had left him. If he were to finally let go, it wouldn’t really mean anything at all. A brief euphoria enveloped him as he realized it, and in that moment he decided. Yes, he would die. Soon. Tonight. A small smile crept onto his face. Sweet relief.
And as he sat there in his office, grading papers, Ominis reached a pale hand out and turned a small picture frame downward on his desk. He knew it held that portrait photograph of him and his friends. Now, it faced the table. It was done, he could finally let go. It had always been silly for him to hold on to the thing anyway.
He leaned his slender form back in his seat, as if further space from the photograph would release him from his ties to those people. Sebastian had followed a path of darkness. Ominis had failed him. He was in Azkaban. Had been for half a year now. Ominis tried to visit him, to write, out of selfishness. Sebastian had refused him. He blamed him for Anne’s death. He was right. Ominis had failed Anne. Let her slip through his fingers. She had met a painful end. All alone. He had left her alone. What a coward.
And then his love… her, in all her power and glory. The ancient magic that crackled in the air about her. His fear of rejection, that had kept him from confessing his love for so long. Yes, a coward. But he had been right to fear. He knew she loved Sebastian, that she blamed Ominis as well, even though it wasn’t him that turned their best friend in, it didn’t matter. She was in love. Ominis had confessed then, he still didn’t know why, and she had simply stared at him. He had felt it in her silence, her stillness. Her bated breath. Her refusal was cold. Her abandonment of him, sealed. Then she had taken the power she found beneath Hogwarts in that cursed repository. Even now, Ominis didn’t know what she was doing with it, but he heard every now and then of a dangerous witch out there. Traveling about and wreaking havoc. She had come back to Britain this month. He was sure it was her. He was frightened of her. Of his failures. Of his selfishness.
The grandfather clock on the wall chimed. Four o’clock. Like the four of them. The cursed trio, and Anne. Their little family. The clock resumed its ticking. He secretly hated that clock. That great old grandfather clock. He hated his grandfather. Ominis set the papers he had been trying to grade to the side, setting his wand down with them. Finally giving it a break from his reading.
Grading didn’t matter now. There would be no use in it. He felt a small pang of guilt for his students. They didn’t deserve this, it would come as a shock no doubt. He had hidden his pain well. They were a bright bunch. Good kids. But they didn’t need him, they deserved someone much better. Now they could finally get it. His taking the Magical Theory post right out of his seventh year was a feeble attempt to be near to her, he knew that. She and Professor Fig had been so close. Professor Fig. He was brave, not a coward like Ominis. A truly good man. Ominis still kept many of his old things in the office. But it didn’t matter anyway, Ominis didn’t have much personality of his own to contribute to the space.
He scooted his chair back and rose from his seat, stretching his body. He would retire to his chambers. There were no more classes for him to teach today, and he could always make that social call that he had promised Sirona, but he had more pressing matters. Now that he had decided to die, the path forward was clear. Finally. First thing: how would he do it? He could cut, of course. He had been doing that for a long time. But he longed for a peace even beyond what that provided for him. A surety that it really would stop. Once and for all. No chance of coming back, or lingering. Perhaps a potion, he doubted his wand would let him use a spell on himself. It could be stubborn like that. Yes, he was sure there would be a good potion.
.
In his bedroom, Ominis pulled out a volume on lethal potions: One Hundred Concoctions of Caution: A Guide For the Responsible Advanced Potion-Maker. Sharp had required it at some point, sixth year? Seventh? Insisting on increasing his students’ wariness of dangerous brews and poisons in the wizarding world, his own experience as an Auror contributed to his concern, no doubt. It had been wise, though. And right now Ominis was very grateful.
After feeling the book’s signature raised title lettering, he pulled out his wand and reclined on his bed, flipping through the volume leisurely and tracing the pages with his wand. It didn’t take long before he found a promising option. “Sinner’s Sleep.” Perfect. He continued reading.
Developed in Japan using the toxin from tiny sea plankton, known as Maitotoxin, it was relatively fast-working. A popular method of suicide, especially in its native country of Japan. It was strictly outlawed in several regions. The potion’s additional ingredients were mallowseet leaves, bamboo milk, moondew, valerian root, and, interestingly, tears from a grieving mother. When properly combined, the additional elements could alter the effects of the minuscule amount of toxin required. Heart failure was guaranteed, but it would come by way of relaxation, few hallucinations, and without any seizing, bloating, or pain. Perfect.
Running down the ingredients list, he was pleased to see that most of the ingredients shouldn’t be hard to come by. The only real concern was the ‘tears of a grieving mother’ ingredient. Ominis was pretty sure that wasn’t a standard potion ingredient. He had certainly never used it. He wondered if Sharp even had it in his stores. He would probably have to get ingredients from there anyway. As his wand danced over the recipe again he belatedly noticed that it needed twenty four hours to simmer before the tears were added. Ominis sat back and sighed, rubbing his eyes. No chance for him to be finished tonight, then. Very well, he would wait one more day. One more sleep.
.
Ominis sat at the faculty table for dinner, in his usual corner next to a grumpy Professor Shah who busied herself complaining to Professor Ronen about terrible weather for stargazing this week. Ominis rarely spoke to her, he had never been particularly enthusiastic about astronomy, for obvious reasons. He suspected that she took deep offense at his downright refusal to complete a star-chart interpretation assignment back in his second year. It was bad enough trying to map faraway things he couldn’t see, expecting him to come up with theories on the global significance of minuscule movements was utterly ridiculous.
Ominis thoroughly enjoyed the lack of conversation, though. It gave him additional time to think. And to take in his surroundings, his last meal in the Great Hall. He listened to the familiar sounds around him. The chatter and clinking of silverware on plates. The mixed fumes of dozens of dishes.
A sigh from Professor Sharp down the table snapped his attention back to his predicament. His potion ingredient shortage. Sharp seemed to be deep in conversation with Professor Hecat, perhaps some Ministry-related reminiscences. Ominis had checked his personal stores before coming down to dinner. He needed the bamboo milk and a little more moondew, both of which he could nab from Professor Sharp’s stores easily enough. Hopefully he could find the tears there as well, but Sharp’s stock was sizable and Ominis didn’t have time to go rifling through its deepest, most far-fetched corners purely by touch and smell. He would have to risk an accio charm, and if he made a little mess in the process, oh well. Hopefully Sharp would forgive him in the end.
The key was the timing of it all; Sharp usually either took a lengthy stroll with Professor Garlick after dinner or returned to his study for an hour or so before heading to Hogsmeade for his customary weekend drinks. Ominis hoped it was the former this time, he didn’t want to keep sitting around waiting. The sooner he got the potion brewing, the better.
Thankfully, only ten or so minutes later, Ominis heard the scraping of a chair being pushed back and the limping gait that could only belong to Professor Sharp. Ominis casually rose as well, plate long abandoned, and paused with his fingertips still gracing the table, leaning over imperceptibly, focusing all his senses on discovering the man’s evening plans. Professor Garlick’s flouncing step joined Sharp’s just as Ominis waited for the man to pass, her stride now joining the fellow Professor’s as the pair left the table. Ominis whipped out his wand and followed casually behind, only taking a couple of steps before hearing Sharp’s gruff tone,
“No, I think I would still very much like that walk. An evening in Hogsmeade doesn’t count as fresh air.”
Professor Garlick laughed, “Well I suppose not, but your leg, all the walking will surely-“
“I’ll be just fine. The exercise will do me good. Besides, what better tonic than a shot of Sirona’s finest fire whiskey?”
“Oh well, if you’re sure.” Ominis could definitely sense her pleasure. “A brief stroll then, I need to put the mandrakes to bed before we all go out.”
Sharp’s voice was warmer than Ominis had ever heard it.
“Of course. Shall we, then?”
Ominis paused by a window pretending to fiddle with the buttons on the blazer beneath his robe, listening keenly for the pair making their way to the doors leading to the gardens. However, it seemed his sudden pause caught Professor Garlick’s attention. Before he could do a thing, she had whipped back around and addressed him,
“Oh, Ominis! We are all heading down to the Three Broomsticks in a couple of hours for some evening entertainment, you should come along! I hear you enjoy music, oh you must come, it would be such a treat to have you!!”
Ominis heard Garlick’s hands perform their customary little clap together in front of her chest. She was such a kind woman.
“Thank you, Professor, but not tonight I think.”
Garlick gave a wistful sigh and spoke lightly,
“I told you to call me Mirabel now that we’re coworkers!” Ominis could hear the smile in her voice. “Ah, very well, I’ll look forward to your company next time, then!”
Ominis smiled and bowed politely in her direction, then listened to her retreating footsteps.
She and Sharp made it through the doors without any more interruptions and Ominis quickly took to the halls, wand raised and pulsing spell working hard to weave him through the scattered crowd of dining students.
As soon as he was sure no one was close by, he dropped his strained pleasant expression and navigated even more quickly, taking a couple of choice shortcuts to reach the Potions classroom more quickly. Garlick and Sharp’s now brief stroll meant less time for him, but he wasn’t putting this off any longer. He would just have to be especially quick.
Ominis arrived promptly, making quick work of the heavy lock on the classroom door. He shut its heavy mahogany behind him softly with well-practiced ease. He narrowly side-stepped the tables crossing to Sharp’s personal stores then, with a sweep of his robe, he was in. Ominis raised his wand immediately as he sensed the many magic-rich materials about him. He swept his wand across several shelves and into a cupboard, registering the overload of distinct impressions that his wand only helped channel into him. So many smells and textures surrounded him and he tried to clear his mind enough to focus on his select ingredients, channeling an incantation of sorts through his wand to help him locate exactly what he needed. Moondew. Bamboo Milk. Tears. Moondew. Bamboo Milk. Tears. His left hand reached out, brushing carefully against the myriad of materials, running over herb bundles, vial labels, and piles of organs alike.
He found the moondew first, located within easy arm's-reach of students as a standard ingredient, and the bamboo milk was in the rear of a cabinet just next to it. Ominis fumbled with the awkward slippery glass containers of each, he had no time to waste with siphoning them into smaller vials. He had just one item left now, the tears of a grieving mother. If Ominis had to guess, only ten minutes or so must have passed in total, but he couldn’t be sure. Having to use a summoning charm on the rare ingredient meant he would need to turn tail quickly if the coming commotion was to be as catastrophic as he expected.
With a sigh, Ominis felt about in his robes for pockets to stuff the moondew and bamboo milk in, their awkward shapes bumping against him. He raised his wand again and, eyebrows pinched in concentration, called as softly as he dared, “Accio Tears!”
He whipped his head about as a strange clamor rose abruptly in front of him to his right, sounding strangely muffled as if behind something wooden. Ominis flinched as it banged more urgently culminating in an epic crash of splintered wood raining out to his feet, a piece even pricking him through his trousers. He reached his free hand out on instinct just in time to catch three very small vials hurtling at him.
It seemed they had been in some hidden chest or container, Ominis was not in the least surprised at Sharp’s paranoia. It was more than likely that such ingredients were used only in potions of an exceedingly dangerous and dark kind. Not for use in schools. Now, Ominis doubted all three vials were the same tears, that of a grieving mother, but someone was likely on their way to investigate the racket, so he merely stuffed the trio in his trouser pocket.
Ominis swept from the storeroom into the classroom, trying to avoid debris, but tripping on the way regardless. He paused only for a moment to strain his ears for any sounds beyond his own laboured breathing before he yanked the classroom door open. The coast still clear, he slipped quickly along the corridor to a small staircase certain to deliver him out of the way. A heavy clacking of quickened footsteps was already descending from the floor above, soon to meet the mess he had made, but it didn’t matter. He had what he needed. It was all coming together so easily, as if the universe was affirming his choices.
.
Ominis didn’t get much sleep that night. It was strange, it wasn’t because he felt nervous or worried about what he was going to do. In fact, he hadn’t felt such peace and contentment for ages. The potion was coming along beautifully, he had sorted the tears of a grieving woman from what had turned out to be crocodile and phoenix samples. It was almost ironic, that he had held in the same hand a substance that was sure to bring him to death’s door, and another that could keep him from it at the very last second. Phoenix tears were a marvel for their healing powers, and exceedingly rare. It was quite astonishing that Sharp had managed to obtain them at all.
Ominis shifted in his bed, hearing the clock on the wall beyond him chime his rising alarm for the day. One last day. He took a moment to himself, exhaling deeply and focusing on every sensation in his body. The quiet rhythms of a vessel determined to crawl forth another day. But its end was a sure thing now, this evening the simmering would be complete and he could take the potion. It had been a complex and difficult recipe, requiring all of his attention, but he had been sufficiently motivated and he was quite certain it was all done correctly.
Ominis rose slowly from his bed, relishing the soft fabrics of his sheets and blankets as he pulled them back. Bare feet met the cool floor as he rose and stretched his lean frame. Going about dressing and putting himself together for the day all came in its regular rhythm. As it was a Saturday, he had no classes to deal with and now had no need for grading, even. He pondered what to do with the hours before him. He had never felt so free. Was there anything he wanted to do one last time? Anywhere he wanted to go? Hogsmeade? No. He might see Sirona, and she might suspect something, she had a sense about her, that one. The highlands? He felt no particular need. And there was nothing for him beyond Hogwarts. Perhaps just a stroll about the grounds, through the halls he had haunted the most in his past. Those with more pleasant memories.
With most students out of the castle for a Hogsmeade weekend or busying themselves with extracurriculars and outdoor activities, Ominis found the corridors sufficiently sparse and quiet for his musings. He noted the way the unique acoustics of every space in the castle immediately reminded him of his surroundings, and all the things that had passed there. Hogwarts really had felt more like a home to him than any other place.
He visited many places: the library, the entrance hall, the grand staircase. He smiled at students passing by and laughed fondly at the bickering portraits. He went down to the dungeons going so far as the Slytherin common room, before turning back. That reminded him too much of Sebastian. Then he wandered on to the faculty tower, greeting Mr. Moon warmly, then the bell tower, round about to the clock tower, reminiscing some of the great Crossed Wands matches. His feet grew sore but still he walked about and remembered, to the viaduct bridge, the Transfiguration courtyard, the Astronomy tower, the Defense Against the Dark Arts Wing… the Undercroft.
Before he knew it, Ominis’ aimless wanderings, intentionally making no navigational sense, led him there. His feet had betrayed him. There he stood in front of that blasted clock. He could hear its incessant ticking. Ominis’ shoulders sank in defeat. One last time. He had said that before, that bringing up old memories of the place would do no good, but this time he meant it. One last time. He raised his wand and flicked his call for the magical opening to present itself.
Ominis clambered through the entrance, feeling as though it were a touch tighter than he remembered. The metal grate lifted and immediately the smell of dust, musty drapery, wood, and stone wafted straight to him. The old wax of long-snuffed candles were speckled throughout and Ominis walked forward slowly, shoes clacking in a lonesome echo against the bare cavernous walls. He simply stood there and took a deep breath, trying to let the pit of buried emotions simmer over just a little. To allow himself to feel it all.
His shoulders began to shake with silent sobs as he called to mind every memory he could and heard it all around him once more: those laughs between friends, all that bickering with Sebastian, the fear that his best friend would be lost, slowly suffocating himself. Shrieks of laughter playing gobstones with Anne, shouted arguments, soft sobs, the smoke of a well-cast confringo, songs sung boisterously, words thrown brutally, her. Her voice when she tried to lie to him about discovering the room. Her soft apologies, her endless reassurances. Her denial of his feelings. Her anger at him. Her hate.
Sebastian’s anger. Sebastian’s fear. His pain. His empty, unfeeling tone as he refused his best friend one last time. Ominis couldn’t believe it had really been him. It hadn’t sounded like him at all. A murderer now, consumed with guilt yet not a note of it entering his lifeless voice as he pushed Ominis away.
A piercing weight plummeted in Ominis’ chest, straining against his ribs, a stabbing, grieving pain so deep it couldn’t stand to be contained in his frame any longer.
Ominis fell to his knees there. On the dusty, empty, dark floor of the Undercroft and released a deep-throated scream. It was angry, sorrowful, guilty, disbelieving, terrified, and full of regret. Grief. His hands curled against the stone floor, yelling and sobbing as if it could get it all out. As if somehow this could connect him to his emotions again. That the pain in his body would unite with the pain in his mind. These were all facts, things that happened, things he remembered. But he couldn’t find his heart, he couldn’t find the plug to pull that would allow tears to fall, allow him to feel everything, anything. His screams relieved nothing. How could a person be an empty shell and an over-boiling cauldron at the same time?
.
Ominis left that place, scrubbing at his eyes though no tears had come. He did not know the hour, and it didn’t really matter. All day he had felt like a ghost already, wandering about these halls so full of history and meaning to him yet already he was far away, not entirely there. He could smile and talk freely, his spirits lighter than ever, but his roots had been cut. He was just floating along, his time already past, his work done. An outflux of students from the Great Hall signaled the end or dinner to him. Evening. Good.
Murmurs punctuated the sounds about him as he made his way to his quarters. He had been vaguely aware of the mutterings about their Professor’s strange behaviour, but nothing could matter less now. They would know soon enough.
Ominis arrived at his study at last. He carefully measured out a vial of the potion, extinguishing the flame and clearing out the rest with the wave of his wand. The vials he had collected had been discreetly wrapped in an unassuming package for Sharp. The professor would find it once it was all over, and wouldn’t get into any trouble for dangerous ingredients on Ominis’ behalf.
With his vial in hand, Ominis considered if he should write something. He took out a piece of parchment and readied a dictation quill but found himself standing there with nothing really to say. Was there anything anyone should know? Just that he was sorry, he supposed. Sorry that it all happened this way. The words left his lips without much thought, “I’m sorry.” He heard the quill scratch it down. He dismissed it and picked up the parchment, folding it carefully and holding it with the potion vial.
Ominis paused then and contemplated whether he would like to bring anything else with him. He had abandoned his Gaunt ring already, and he wanted nothing in connection with his family, but he found himself drawn to that same photograph on his desk. That one of him and them, back when they had all been innocent children, friends.
Ominis reached a hand out to his desk, easily locating and grasping the small metal and glass frame that he had turned downward. He wondered what it looked like, apparently photographs moved like paintings. But they didn’t speak. Was he smiling there now? Holding onto his friends, laughing perhaps? Did he look content? Had he ever been?
.
A small bathroom, adjacent to a Professor’s quarters.
A potion vial held tightly.
A picture frame gripped with whitened knuckles.
Robe shed onto the floor.
A heavy sigh.
A dry sob.
A picture frame crashing against the tile floor.
Metal pieces. Torn paper. Glass everywhere.
A sigh.
A drop to one’s knees.
.
The glass frame, the portrait of a friendship broken in what felt like a lifetime ago was finally reflecting the reality of life. Yes, he had never been able to see the thing, to see anything, he had always been blind in more ways than one. A blind fool, who never saw his failures in action, how terrible they truly were. Those poor muggles he tortured. Everyone who suffered because of his existence. His entire world slipping away. Every good thing he had managed to find. He never had the sense to hold onto it. Not like he should. What a fool. What had he even been here for?
As he groped around the space on the floor where that gentle crash had sounded, his fingertips were grazed by shards of glass. Little papercuts. He found the largest and picked it up carefully, closing his entire hand around it, relishing in the sting of the smooth, cold surface. He knew the blood seeping from his hand now must be red. And that glass reflected light. It must be a beautiful sight to behold.
Slowly, with intention and precision, as everything he did had always been, he took the shard to his left forearm. Shifting the piece in his hand for a moment to free his fingers to run along the scars there of his previous cuts, finding reassurance in them, in the warmth of the blood seeping from his hand, now dripping on them. An anointing. With a deep, cathartic breath he pressed the shard into his wrist, the stinging pressure felt so real; his tight, drawn face releasing its mask. His eyebrows softened in a blessed release of tension. He drew the cut deliberately, maintaining its precise depth and speed all the way to his elbow. The sticky warmth of his blood wrapping his arm in a warm embrace.
His left hand shook slightly as it now took its turn grasping the shard. He could already feel the weakness in his fingers growing. He needed to move more quickly. He repeated the process on his right arm, straining a bit to keep the pressure and consistency his left arm had received. When it was finished he released the shard with a clatter. Relieved to be rid of it, relieved to finally let go of that picture frame. That picture. And all the pain that came with it. The way it had always held his best friends in the whole world right in front of him, unable to be seen. A reminder of their fractured, collapsed relationship, of all his failures and the death of the only thing that had ever really mattered in his life.
Ominis felt the weakness spreading in his arms, but managed to locate the vial he had set down next to himself. He struggled a bit with the little turning metal lid but it opened obediently with a soft squeak. Ominis swirled it once, barely sensing the weight of the light liquid, before he brought it to his lips. He didn’t really think about what it all meant, what he was about to drink. A part of him felt like he should. But he simply threw it back, ribbons of blood coating his arms more urgently and the vial falling immediately with a clatter. The liquid slid down his throat easily, he barely felt the weight of it. He had touched memories in a pensieve once, he imagined this quite similar. There was a faint sweetness to it. A calming warmth blanketed his throat, like a good cup of tea.
Gently, softly he lowered himself to the cool tile floor, melting into the way it soothed his aching bones. Goosebumps rippled across his skin as Ominis closed his eyes. He felt his heart find a peaceful rhythm in his chest. Finally, its fearful rapid beating, its constant self-preserving defense was finding safety again. He smiled at the thought. Peace, finally. It was enough to bring a tear to his eye. The life-blood in his veins seeped from his torn arms and he could feel a cloud growing in his mind, fogging everything over in the way his eyes had always seen the world. A thick fog obscuring everything in his life except the extreme lights and shadows of what lay around him. It had always been like that, living in the extremities, unable to see the greys, the nuanced beauty that was supposed to be around him. Assuming the worst, or the best, in denial, in unforgiving hope. Absent to those early signs that things with those he loved had gone so very wrong. Unable to do anything, no, refusing to do anything.
The potion was really taking effect now. What he had read about it proved to be true, it would surely be a peaceful end. His thoughts wandered, emotions bubbled in his chest, he grew confused, amazed, happy, relaxed, giddy, and peaceful in the swirling mixture of a dying mind. He was warm now. And so sleepy. How long had it been since he had slept so deeply? He couldn’t remember. Too long. Maybe never. Oh, it was so nice. What an excellent sleep this would be.
He could smell things now, feel things too. It was all so much, his senses now flooded as he wandered outside himself. It was everything.
Bluebells and honeysuckle. The grass and trees around Hogwarts. The smell of her, jasmine and amber, rose of taif. Her musk of vanilla-aged books. Aged and wise. She was wise. She knew what to do. She was right about him.
The parchment and ink of Sebastian. His shampoo with sandalwood. That cologne he sometimes wore, warm and sharp. Like an old man. So silly. The mustiness of the Undercroft that always followed him. He had always spent too much time there. The Undercroft. Yes, that dripping wax and candle smoke.
The dust and paint of some project of Anne’s. Anne. Earl Grey tea. Oil of bergamot. Lavender. That Scottish lavender she loved. Her wool scarf, rich with her sweet marigold and gardenia perfume from its constant place around her shoulders. She always loved flowers. She was a flower. Haha, an Anne-flower. So silly. So soft. So gentle.
Sebastian’s rough ink-stained hands. Anne’s soft ones. The blisters of ancient magic on his love’s. That ring she always wore.
The softness of his old dormitory bed. The smell of the lake seeping nice and subtle down into the common room. Through that stone ceiling. Always so much stone in Hogwarts. Cold and drafty. Warmth of hearth fires. So many steps. Old things. Old rugs, tapestries, paintings. Threads escaping.
The cool autumn air of the Scottish highlands around them. All the sweet and spicy smells of Hogsmeade, the smooth sugary paste of those Honeydukes sweets. The warmth of a mug of butterbeer.
The earth and plants, the musk of animals. Fur. That awful manure they used in Herbology. Those Hippogriphs’ well-groomed feathers.
Gaunt Manor. The scent of loneliness. The stench of death. The electricity that crackled in the air. Stiff starched shirts. The cold hands of his mother that refused his reach. The sting of his father’s when they struck his skin. Sickly rich, cloying food. Burning things. Over-polished silver. No. Gaunt Manor was behind him. Forever. He had escaped. And there was no going back. Ever. He smiled. An escape. At last.
As he drifted closer and closer to that sweet edge his life only flashed by in these remembered scents, textures, and sounds. He didn’t have the sight to remember how things looked, after all. He took a shuddering breath, feeling his body give one last effort to stay alive, to preserve itself. So foolish. It had never cooperated. He wondered absently what it would have been like to be able to see. If life would have been better if he could.
Then suddenly, as his heart slowed, his breath stopped, his mind quieted, and he saw it. Yes, he could see… he could see! He could see everything! And it was beautiful! Oh, so beautiful.
His body fell completely still, eyes frozen in peace. A final tear gently caressed his cheek.
What a wonderful world.
.
I see trees of green, red roses too
I see them bloom, for me and for you
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world
I see skies of blue, and clouds of white
The bright blessed days, dark sacred nights
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world
The colors of the rainbow so pretty in the sky
Are also on the faces of people going by
I see friends shaking hands
Sayin’ how do you do
They’re really saying I love you
I hear babies cry, I watch them grow
They’ll learn much more than I’ll ever know
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world
Yes, I think to myself
What a wonderful world