058: memento

The figure rested on the smooth, mossy rocks by the shore, with a three-fingered hand laying outstretched on the stone, glistening in the morning sun. In the other hand, clasped tightly, dangled a tattered and torn cloth, its color long since faded into ghastly pastels. The figure gazed at the artifact, with its single red lens somehow transcending mere machinery to produce a lone tear, running down the polished metal face. Turning away from the sight, the metal digits loosened their grip, as the breeze made its presence known.

The figure rose, as the wind carried away the cloth.