[u][i]The wind rustles loosely through the long grass that leads up to Po's hill. Leaves rustle loosely and fall, yellowed and browned from age. The grass grows tall, unkempt and untrodden upon. Resting alongside the tree is a hammer, a book and a strange guitar. Leaves cover them, as if they've gone unused for months. In the hut beside the tree, the door lays ajar. Inside, dust floats through the air, covering the barren surfaces. No books fill the shelves, all taken hastily as if somebody had been rushed. Beams of light shine through the window, illuminating the empty room. Nothing but dust remains, all evidence of their existence gone. The weapons left as a monument to their presence, there for those who knew them to remember. To remember the times that were had. To remember the highs, and the lows. Upon the monument lies a single sliver of paper.[/i][/u] [b][i][u]Goodbye.[/u][/i][/b]