The young woman stands still. Her brown hair flows freely in the wind. Most would shiver in the freezing cold, but she does not. She got used to the cold long ago.
Snowflakes fall and sit on top her head for a moment before melting. Thousands of tiny pins drop all around her. Each snowflake plays a note in this melody.
She sighs. Her wispy breath comes out like a fog before dissipating into the morning air. The graves say nothing to her. They’re all dead, markers for dozens who should remain in the past. The woman trudges foreword crunching the snow beneath her boots with each step. She stops at a grave.
“Hey,” she mutters. She crosses her arms, folding into herself. “I’m back.”
The grave says nothing. Even though the occupant lives on, she knows that life exists only metaphorically. She’s talking to a grave. It does not hear her. It will not reply. Maybe this’s just an excuse to talk to herself. She doesn’t know for sure.
“What happened in the last year? It’s been three hundred and sixty-six days this time around. Zoe got to celebrate her birthday on the right day this time around. The poor kid’ll have to wait another four years for that to happen. Oh, I almost forgot. She and Ezekiel insisted my cake have twenty-seven candles on it. Ain’t that the sweetest thing?”
The grey stone lies there as it always has and always will. The consistency warms the woman’s heart. She raises her hand and looks at the lilacs she carried all this way.
“I don’t think you were into flowers. Well, this’s a white lilac. I like the meaning of this little guy, so I grew it in my greenhouse just for this occasion. I’d like the imagery more if you would take it from me, but you’re dead. Not much you can do, so I’ll just put it here.”
She sets the flowers down. For a moment, her eyes flash red. She clutches her temple and blinks. They revert back to their normal brown.
She smiles. “I’m still in control. Ain’t that nice?”
