He would make the paper the next day. One line. Age. Incident of death. Nothing of his passions, his dreams, the many places he had visited or those he had hoped to see. Or of his mistakes, she would think. His only significant legacy the price of his watch being languidly debated in the neighbouring block by the pair who had chanced upon the lonely wrist, a cracking end to their crack fuelled day.
In deference the sky began to cry, its first tear smudging the chalky profile which would soon be erased completely. As she left she mused how sad that no one cared to question whether he had in fact jumped.