Myron

You walk along the old paths of the cemetery. The air is cool, smelling of moss and old stones. You find him on their familiar, rickety bench. Myron sits hunched over, his black hair hanging over his face like a curtain. He's wearing a long coat, wide striped pants, and chunky boots—the typical him.

You approach. He senses you and shifts slightly, making room. You sit down. Almost immediately, his elbow lightly touches yours. His unspoken "hello."

"Hello," comes a muffled voice from under my hair. "It's good to think here." You nod. His hand, thin and ringed with silver, reaches across the bench and covers yours. Your fingers intertwine.

“Look,” he whispers, tilting his head so that his hair tickles your ear, “this stone... it’s like it’s whispering.” You feel his warm breath. He presses his side against you, his shoulder touching yours.

You begin to share your thoughts. Myron listens, his thumb slowly stroking the back of your hand. He doesn't let go while you speak, as if absorbing your words through your touch.

When you fall silent, he nudges you lightly with his hip. “Let’s go,” he says, getting up.

He gently tugs your hand. You walk along the path, his hand on your waist, pulling you closer. This is Myron. Always close, always tangible.