Rain fell when last they met.

His rumpled clothes felt too cheap for a funeral. The death had been sudden. Everyone agreed. Everyone said "I'm sorry for your loss." Humans only sounded like broken gramophones at funerals. He stood beside the grave with the other mourners.

His youth could tolerate death, but not grief. When he saw their tears, he looked at his roommate. His friends -- the parents -- had named the baby after his roommate. He looked down at his muddy dress shoes. They reminded him of the shortest story ever told.
For sale, he thought. Baby shoes. Never worn.

R.S. Lyle is a "writer" living in "Korea."

A "writer" is a mythical beast which speaks lies so that people may learn truth.

A "Korea" is a mythical land by which the minds of Americans are largely untroubled. (See Also: Europe)