When Mr. Rock Garden stepped into the flowerless place next door, for the first time, he seemed to be standing amongst tombstones.  He was the only living thing.  His back was to me as the orangey hue of dusk settled on his hunched shoulders.  I watched carefully, leaving my chair to go to the window to get a better look.  His shoulders shook erratically, and through the opening in the window, his desperate song of “They need to take me away” came with sobs.  I gasped and recoiled.  My right index finger came away from my cheek with the saltiness of a single tear on it.  A single tear that would drown in Mr. Rock Garden’s torrent of tears.

I closed the curtains, feeling I had intruded on a private funeral.  While curiosity was my main culprit for watching my neighbor these past several weeks, I was beginning to wonder if I had developed some sort of unhealthy obsession with him.  What was his story?  Who was he really?  What was his name?