He abandoned the book as if to repeat the gesture he had made when he left home with nothing but a backpack, without saying anything to his parents, leaving only a quiet kiss on his grandmother's cheek when she could no longer see the difference between a boy leaving for school and an everlasting good-bye heavy with a sorrow that would take time to heal. Walking down the sidewalk that would take him to his refuge, he thought back on the cover of the book he didn't read. That image was a photograph he wish he had taken himself. He walked and focused on the sensations that the wind was spreading through the street, determined to look for his camera and take the streets again to find a suitable frame to capture all the melancholy that the city had awoken in him. At the margins of his path, the few leaves left on the tree whose name he did not know continued to fall from the branches, being swept in the same direction that his feet were taking him.