The sun never stops setting.
Harry probably knew that better than anyone. He’d lost count of the days he’d watched the sun die, painting the sky shades of roses and carnations.
He liked to watch the sun set. It was a beautiful distraction from his thoughts, gentle music notes to shatter the screaming silence.
When he wasn’t distracted, his mind wandered to what his life had been.
He remembers being happy.
He remembers having lots of friends.
He remembers that his life was almost perfect.
It fades before his eyes in flashes, his mother’s faint voice calling him adorable, a girl in his class telling him he has a beautiful smile, his friend asking if he wanted to hang out.
But it was fading.
If you’d asked him maybe a month earlier or even a week or a day - Harry has started to lose track of time - then he probably would’ve thought that it was a good thing they were fading.
Every memory had been a sharp stabbing pain in his chest, a reminder of everything he’d lost.
Now he was clinging to traces of his mother’s warm hugs, his sister’s teasing grin, his friend’s full laugh.
They were his sole comforts. Something like happiness filled his body when he thought about them, warmth slipping into all his cracks and fading pieces.
But he knew it wasn’t happiness, because he’d lost his ability to feel emotions when he died.
Some people would probably consider that a good thing, not being able to feel sadness or guilt or anger, but Harry hated being numb.
He’d been without emotion for so long that he couldn’t even remember what emotion was.
He couldn’t remember much of anything, really.
His memories were turning into sunlight and slipping through his fingertips.
He had been the sun, but he’d shattering into the ground, and what was left of him was fading slowly and completely from the world.
Harry thinks he is like a sunset.