Things were not, as a general trend, going overly well.

/Twenty papers! I had to eat twenty papers! I haven't eaten that many in years!/

Bumlets sighed heavily and leaned on the railing of the Brooklyn Bridge, watching the water flowing silently beneath him. Hell, maybe that was the solution he was looking for. Take the coward's way out and fling himself off of the bridge instead of facing tomorrow. He closed his eyes, imagining the feeling of cool water closing over his head, the temporary burning of his lungs, then the blessed, blissful blackness—

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

"Gah!" Startled out of his reverie, Bumlets spun to stare at the person next to him. "What the--?"

The intruder, a boy about his age with short brown hair and dark eyes, hid a smile behind his hand. "Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." He gestured out to the water. "The water. Isn't it beautiful?"

Bumlets turned back and looked out over the water again. The moon glinted off the waves and sparkled along the surface. A seagull wheeled overhead, seeking a late dinner. Beyond, the lights of the city glowed softly.

"It'd be an awful pity if that beautiful water were stained with blood tomorrow," the boy continued, raking a hand though his hair. "Don't you think?"

Bumlets glanced over at the boy, who was staring at the water, resting his chin in his hands. He met Bumlets' gaze then, and arched an eyebrow. "Well?"

"I don't know . . ." Bumlets replied slowly. "It might look kind of nice."

"What makes you say that?"

"When the whole world's against you, you think everything would look better with a little red."

"You have a point, but . . . the whole world isn't against you."

Bumlets snorted.

"It's not," the boy insisted. "I'm not."

Bumlets chuckled softly at that. "Okay, so there's you. What about everyone else?"

The boy shrugged. "Can't speak for anyone else." He turned back to the water. "Anyway, I don't know about you, but I just love being alive too much. It'd be so . . . boring to be dead." He laughed softly. "Besides, there's always tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Bumlets repeated, scoffing. "It'll be the same as today, same as yesterday . . . nothing ever changes."

"Don't say that," the boy said, his tone mildly reproving. "You don't know that for sure."

"Sure I do," Bumlets replied. "I've been living in New York since I was four. It's the same thing every day."

The boy shrugged again. "Believe what you will. I just speak what I know, and I know that things are looking up." He checked his pocket watch. "I have to go now, Bumlets. I enjoyed talking with you. Maybe we can do it again someday." He turned and began walking towards the Brooklyn end of the bridge.

Bumlets stared after him, then started. Were those . . .

. . . wings?

"Wait!" he called. The boy stopped, glanced over his shoulder. "Who are you?"

The boy's face split into a smile. "I have no name!" he called back. "But those who see me usually call me Fate."

With that, he winked and disappeared into the night.

~la fin~