The body was unmistakable up close. It was a piece of his own, Puppets he had called them. John stared into the glistening, crushed eyes of his limp creation. He would have felt sad had it not been impossible for it to exist. He squinted at the pouring sky, trying think past his pounding head. He remembered this place now, despite its shattered appearance. A small story, though one was proud of. But this couldn't exist, it was fantasy, pen on paper. He wiped the water from his eyes and looked at the broken buildings around him. There was only one thing he could think of to figure out if this really existed.

With painful steps,John made his way to what was conveniently the closest house. The walls were battered, the door caved, but the roof was still fairly stable. He shuddered, though not from the cold. This was exactly how he had designed the houses; fit for living, but capable of taking anything directly to the roof. He stepped through the entryway into the dark house, listening to the roaring sound dampen as he entered. He could hear the several leaks dripping, echoing through the house. Perhaps the roof wasn't as sturdy as first thought. He stepped into the main room; perfectly round, bookcases on the walls. Our there were, it seemed. John stared at the walls, beginning to feel sick. This was a home, a place of knowledge and life for his Puppets. He was almost certain this wasn't a dream; he could tell when he was dreaming. Couldn't he? Join sighed, exhausted by the pounding rain and mental stress. He saw something glistening down the hall on his left. He felt something die inside him. Lying in a pool of trickling water and fluid was a Puppet. 

It was his Puppet.

John White had died here.