So this is the end of the world, the child thought. It wasn’t really, he supposed, but it might have well been. Not that he was afraid. He didn’t see why he should be. It wasn’t like he much more to look forward to in life, and so far, it had been pretty boring. He was just another face in a busy street. No one had time to realize he wasn’t with his parents; no one had time to realize he shouldn’t be wondering around by himself. He didn’t fear death.
Everybody died. It was just another thing that made him like everyone else. Perhaps, someone could argue, it was different because he was so young, but he didn’t feel young. He had been told before that it was a shame he was an orphan. The person, he forgot now who it was, had said that if he went to school, it would shine how much of a prodigy he was.
But he didn’t care about education or being smarter than the rest. To him, he was average. Never anything special.

He welcomed death.

The only thing he regretted was not telling the person what he thought.