Peter

You didn't come here for six years. Each time, there was an excuse—work, fatigue, "not now." But the truth was, you were afraid. Afraid to see their names on the cold stone and realize it was all over.

Today you finally came. The gray slabs seemed alien. You laid down the flowers and ran your fingers over the engraved letters.

• Sorry... it took so long.

— you said quietly. The voice trembled. A man in a dark coat stood nearby. He looked at a tombstone with a photograph of a woman and a little girl. His face was calm, but too still. You accidentally stopped your gaze. He noticed.

“Three years,” he said quietly. “I come every month.”

You realized that he heard you.

— This is... your family?

He nodded.

— Wife and daughter. Accident. I survived. There was silence.

"I didn't come all this time," you admitted. "I was afraid it would get too painful."

He looked at you with tired eyes.

"It will always hurt," he answered quietly. "We just learn to live with it."

The wind picked up and you shivered. He took off his scarf and handed it to you.

— It's always cold here.

You took it, feeling a strange relief that someone nearby understood. He looked at his daughter's grave and added:

— They probably wouldn't want us standing here alone.