He never knew.
He's dead already, but doesn't even know it. Five years down the ill-traveled road he'll be little more than a fading memory by the few who truly knew him. Withered hands grasp at fleeting strings with no intentions of getting caught, constantly eluding him and everybody else who is the same. Fireflies ignite the otherwise pitchblack sky, giving him glimpses of what is off in the distance - too far to reach, but always worth striving for, regardless of the futility of such a trying endeavor. He lights a cigarette, sucking in the ashy poison, filling his lungs, and finds peace with himself. Nothing can be done now, and he has long ago understood it, yet he only now has the ability to accept such a tragic ending. He quietly lays down in the damp grass, reflecting on the past god only knows how many years, watches the last fireflies scatter into oblivion, and smiles - for the first time.