But His Face Was An Iron Plague Mask

He's always tired. Always tired at this time of the month, always tired at this time of the week, always tired at this time of the day, always tired at this time of the hour. Worn, thin and grey.
Bells toll and it's time.
Walking along colorless wet leaves, clouds of carbon dioxide appear for a few moments around grey heads bowed down, close together. Perhaps there is an orb of pale light very low in the sky but nobody notices because of the vertical lines everywhere, looming, black, concrete that have been pushing back against the sky as long as anyone can remember. Perhaps that is why the air is so thin, why the sky is forgotten... It has disappeared, finally giving up the struggle against the concrete and iron fences. Why are they built? Anyone might know but nobody seems to.
But she might.
She tries to find those who will listen, but those who are ready seem to be fewer and fewer as the months tread on. For some reason her room is the coldest in the house. She follows him, ignoring the bowed heads and wet leaves. He's so tired, she can feel it, but he's not gone yet. There is something, something. She saw it in his writings, a flicker, a glimpse, a small whisper...
She grabs the back of his coat and turns him around. They face each other and the grey sun sets.