He sits on the couch, wrapped in a blanked, trying to keep himself warm.
It's cold and dark outside, not enough for the ice to frame the window, nor late enough for the sun to completely fill the room.
He hears her getting ready behind him.
Then she speaks. And he cringes.
"What do you want me to say him?"
He doesn't bother to answer. Liquid memories flow along his cheeks.
He can't shut them behind him, like she does with the door.
He didn't know that gravestones could talk.