The autumn bent towards fall and crumpled dry leaves compacted around the cemetery. Braving the brisk breeze alone was a man dressed in black. He sat on top of Stephany West’s grave and had set out a small picnic. There were sandwiches and bottles of water, but mostly there were books. He ate, enjoying each bite because he knew when he was without her again he wouldn’t treat himself so kindly. After eating the man left food out for Stephany and then read from one of the books in a soft spoken but well-rehearsed voice. The speed of his cadence never morphed and the ease of his of reading aloud matched the grace of a poet. Eventually he stopped.
“I’m sorry,” He said forcing the final image of her out of his mind. The anger and inattentiveness had been long-standing flaws. The ice and the oncoming car, the man decided, were also his fault. The trees rustled in the breeze and spit leaves out of their holding at their leisure.
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