Psithurism (noun): the sound of wind in trees

In this little box, he was nothing. An unheard man, with an unknown background, whose death would be unwept.

The prison guard would soon arrive at his scheduled hour to deliver lunch, but he couldn't care less about his food.

He couldn’t care less about the entire world.

When he dies, his life would end like any other. The guard controlling his freedom, his parents cursing his existence, his friends cutting ties with him… they would all simply become meaningless one day, forgotten by time. Death was the universal fate that did not discriminate against any once-living soul.

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When the time comes, he would be no different than the now-dead friend he had murdered for money.

And so, he did not feel unhappy. He quietly sat in the jail cell and counted his days, always complying with his guards with an eerie obedience.

Until he heard the wind.

A soft rustle of leaves outside the prison bars.

That insignificant sound sent him into a blazing whirlwind of fury and grief. Instantly, he was screeching and wailing and pounding on the cold metal door, insanity violently clawing at his shoulder as he struggled to no avail.

He was nothing. Nothing but burning rage for himself, blistering guilt for his friend, and a deep regret for a beautiful life he could’ve lived.