Flowers for the Dead

She moved with the mist.

She trailed the man through the iron gates. He made it easy. He came to the cemetery on his own.

She watched him. She waited.

Max stopped at a stone. He held flowers in his hand. They were wilted. Sorry looking things. He put them down on the dirt. He got down on one knee. He touched the tombstone.

She drifted closer. Her black dress trailed.

Pathetic, she thought. Grieving mortal. Alone in the dark. Perfect.

She stepped into his view.

-Such a touching display, she said. Her voice was low. Did you love her very much?

Max jumped. It wasn't late yet. But it was winter. The dark came early on the late afternoon.

-Hello, he said. He paused. It’s my wife.

She smiled.

-Was?

She took a step. She could smell his grief. It was intoxicating.

-The pain is fresh, she said. I can taste it on the air.

She tilted her head. Her yellow eyes gleamed.

-Tell me about her.

-There’s never going to be another woman like her, Max said ruefully.

She moved behind him. Her breath was on his neck.

-No, she said. There won’t be.

Her voice dropped.

-The emptiness must be consuming.

She reached out. Her hand hovered over his shoulder.

-Let me help you forget that ache, she said. Just for a little while.

-I promised her I’d stay faithful, Max said. Until death do us part. Death hasn’t parted me yet.

She laughed.

-Such noble suffering, she said.

Her fingers touched him. Cold. Precise. She traced the line of his jaw.

-But death isn’t the end, she said. It’s a new beginning.

She leaned in. Her lips brushed his ear.

-Let me show you.