A visit.

A tall man dressed in a tan overcoat stands at the foot of a grave. The winter wind whips his blonde hair about and freezes the trails of tears that streak his cheeks.

He'd been standing there motionless for the past twenty minutes.

When he arrived, he bent down on one knee to clear away the withered flowers, and to replace them with a bouquet of white roses tied with a red ribbon. He wiped dirt and debris from the name carved deep into the headstone. And he knelt there for a while, his hand splayed on a mound of dry soil, blades of brown grass between his fingers. Perhaps hoping to feel something. Anything. When he felt nothing but the earth beneath his palm, he stood up.

There he remains, standing at the foot of a grave. It answers no questions, although he listens for them. It brings no new life, although he offers it half-opened buds.

But the roses will wither again, the ribbon will blow away, dirt will encrust the stone that bears his love's name.

And he stands so still he can almost feel the planet revolve under his feet. He wishes it would stop, and turn backwards, so he could take that night back. A wish that goes ungranted.

Ten more minutes pass before he turns around, his hands in his pockets, and walks toward the gates, not bothering to wipe away his frozen tears.