[9] The Dying Flame

Earth.

If a painter ever were to make an attempt at turning the word "Sorrow" into a piece of artwork, they would end up with the exact image of that morning on Pomegranate Hill.

Mist encased the small hillside. The sun hadn't risen yet, and even if it had, the rain hammering down from above would block it out entirely. Despite this, the flowers that littered the grass below the tree were starting to open anyway. The place was beautiful, but dark. Similar to the ruins of a once-great temple or a broken statue. A remnant of a different time. A different world.