My wife was my world. I lived just to see her smile. Her laughter was as the singing of angels. When she became pregnant, it was as if a new world were created just for us. A child of our own.

She died during the delivery. Her small, frail body just couldn’t take the stress of delivering our son. Our son. My new world. Every fiber of my being would now be dedicated to the raising of our son. My love for her would be reflected in him.

My son died 8 weeks after being born 3 months premature. His tiny hands would no longer grasp my finger. His little body would not be growing into manhood. I no longer have a wife or son to love. I no longer have a family. I no longer have a direction in my life.

He sat up straight so his tears wouldn’t drip onto the pages of his diary. So much emptiness. A void that couldn’t be filled.

The dairy lay open to the last passage as he walked to the door of his cottage. Pulling open the door, he stepped out into the rays of the setting sun, leaving his life behind forever.