The world did not mourn. Nobody thought it was strange, nor did anybody feel there was any difference. Every single person got out of bed to begin their daily morning routine, some less pleasurable than others, and proceeded with their lives as they would always have.
Out of everyone in the world, from Azerbajian to Zambia, only one person was aware something has changed.
He was the Brony.
The Brony woke up with a start, his bed stained with cold sweat. Something was not right. He rolled to his side in search of his familiar comfort, only to discover it gone. He jumped out of bed, tossed his pillows to the end of the room and his blanket onto the floor. He pulled the bedsheet off the mattress. Nothing. It has disappeared.
The Brony was in a panic. His first instinct was that someone had taken it, but he lived alone in a 400 sq ft studio apartment and hardly any of his neighbours knew he stayed there. The windows were still shut and the blinds were down, untouched for months. But it was still gone, and he could not explain it.
His body pillow of (Purple Penny? Phi Phi Fi? Pewter Pierce?) was no longer there.
The Brony tried to calm himself. Maybe he had been sleepwalking and put the pillow somewhere else. Maybe he had night terrors and threw the pillow across the room.
Maybe,
maybe,
maybe.
The Brony flicked on the light switch.
All his shelves were bare.
On the day the ponies went away, the Brony screamed.