He chased the shadow through the mud and rain, concerned over the urgency at which this figure seemed to be running. The soapy bubbles trailed after the mysterious pony, popping delicately in the downpour.
But then, just for one moment, there was a break in the clouds, just enough for the light of the moon to illuminate the pony who had finally grown tired and slowed to a stop. In one gaze was the weight of a thousand years of sorrow and regret, of loss beyond imagination. He could hardly believe the sight in front of him, this broken, shattered mirror, this shadow of what could be.
His voice whispered under the rain, weak, pleading, but dismissing whatever fate had befallen him...
But that whisper was his own secret to keep.