Such unseasonable weather, she thought. It seemed typical for late Spring, not the first week of Winter. A warm Southerly wind blew, swirling the ground fog into fantastic shapes, the morning dew sparkling from browned grasses and bare limbs.
Maybe it was the silence which gave the scene such an unnatural feeling. No bird song nor buzzing of early insects, just the rustle of leaves and the creak of tree trunks pushing against each other. Even the sun had yet to clear away the low haze, the light diffused. The blue sky above washed out to a lifeless grey.
Her eyes drifted downward, past the reaching trees and course brush. Through the trailing fingers of fog moving across the vacant earth to a figure, cloaked in black, which knelt among the silent stones which stood guard over this sacred ground. She could not hear his words, though she knew he was speaking as he always did, in a whisper lost to the wind. His back was to her today, though she didn’t need to see his face to know the tears which coursed down weathered, unshaven cheeks. She need only close her own eyes to his, blue, broken, and empty.
It shouldn’t be this way she knew. It was never what she wanted; for him or herself.
“Set me free,” she whispered.
He did not see the dove rise from its perch on a nearby headstone and fade into the morning mists.