It was a grey Monday morning. Henry gazed out the window and saw nothing but his reflection. Henry knew the time had come, and living was no longer an option. 

He was found in his apartment, laying flat on the bed. Spots of blood were scattered on the floor. His right wrist had deep cuts, so deep that blood soaked the sheets. Next to his wrist was a sharp knife, also amassed with blood. Henry laid there, dead. 

Under the bed a letter was found. The letter was a song, and on the back of it was blood. The following words were written in this blood:

To you my love.

-H