Raindrops fall from the sky, as in some sort of elegant suicide.

"Tom, Tom, he was a piper's son,"

The freckled girl closed her eyes and let the raindrops fall down on her face. It ran into her already soaked hair, turning it a deep cinnamon.

"He learned to play when he was young."

She pauses, squeezing her eyes tightly, trying to suppress the sobs that threaten to shake her thin frame.

"And all the tune that he could play, was over the hills and far away;"

In her mind someone is singing the song with her, even though she's sure he never knew the words. Clear, crisp, precise. Just like the raindrops that pierce her clothes and skin.

"Over the hills is a great way off. The wind shall blow my top-knot off."

Echoing, like the distant memory that he was. Salt water mixes with the rain, running in rivets down her freckled face. The girl sat there like a beautiful abandoned doll, left out in the rain. A thought trickles into her mind; perhaps he too, was a lost abandoned doll, left out in the rain.