We are a bunch of broken people. At the bottom of our hearts we hide the broken pieces, the blood-stained wounds and the shrapnel. We lay them there in darkness, believing that no one, not even ourselves shall ever touch them, or see the blood that has still not ceased to drip from them. Time passes, the sun rises and sets, the wind blows; but the dark innards of the heart knows none, all that sees the day is the muddy layer that has been laid at the top, sometimes with facades of emotion, or sometimes with the lack of any.

Until one day.

Then it rains incessantly, and the mud gives way to a drop that seeps deep down, past the gravels, past the voids, past the shrapnel, and finally touches the broken piece – and then blood does not drip from the wound anymore. The darkness dissolves into nothingness. Rays of light reach the bottom, for the first time in forever. Only a faded scar is left behind – as another addition to your trophy room. Once in a while, it strikes your gaze, and you pause for a moment to think about it, but it brings no memories. You gently touch it once, and turn away, back to your life.