THE UNDYING | TWILIGHT

11. Mourning

In the early morning hours, so early that the sun hadn't yet peeked over the horizon, a young woman entered the quiet cemetery alone, carrying with her a small bouquet of flowers to lay at her lover's grave. She'd meant to come sooner, but the grief was too much for her to bear. It still was. Holding the flowers close to her chest, she moved forward slowly, one quivering step at a time, and when she reached his grave, she sank to her knees and began to weep.

"Do not cry," said a man, his voice soft and disarming. He was standing right beside the woman when she turned around, and she found his smile so comforting that she didn't once question his mysteriously sudden appearance.

"He has no need for your tears," he said. "He is at peace now."

The woman wiped her eyes and tried to smile. "I know, but it's just so ..."

"Unbearable."

"Yes."

"Everyone will tell you that it gets easier with time, but that is a lie. It never gets easier, never."

"You've lost someone too?"

The man nodded. "My wife and my children."

"Oh, I'm so sorry. What happened?"

"I don't know," he answered, his pale face contorting with sadness and guilt. "I wasn't there. I never was. After they died, I made a promise to their memory: I swore I would visit their graves every day, but I couldn't even keep that promise. It's been years since my last visit. Now, I can't even remember where they rest."

The woman stood. "Then let's find them, together."

The man was taken aback. "I don't think you'll be able to find them."

"So you won't even try?" Boldly, she took his arm. "Come on."

With only a name to guide them, the two walked up and down the cemetery aisles, searching every slab of stone they passed. The man was not as optimistic as his companion. He moved along with slow, laborious steps. If not for the woman tugging his arm, he wouldn't have moved at all, but she was determined to help this stranger find closure.

"Is this her?" the woman asked when she stumbled upon a dusty, broken headstone that bore the faint letters of his late wife's name. "Damaris, that's her, isn't it?"

Stepping away from him, she knelt in front of the grave and began to brush away the thick layer of dust with her fingers.

Slowly, a date emerged.

"18 ... 67 ... 1867?" She sat back in confusion. "This can't be right," she said to herself before turning and saying to the man, "I think we have the wrong ..."

The man had disappeared.

With a quiet gasp, the woman rose to her feet and glanced about the desolate cemetery, seeing nothing but the endless columns of cold stone.

A chill ran down her spine as she stared once more at the numbers carved into the tombstone.

"1867."

Shuddering, she gathered herself and left in a hurry.

Moments later, when all was still once more, the man reemerged, taking her place in front of the grave. He had no flowers to lay, no kind words to say, and so he just stood there in silence until a second man joined him.

"Right on time, as usual," the man said to the newcomer. "Nice to see you haven't lost your touch, Demetri."

"Well, you made it quite simple, Constantine. All I had to do to find you was go to the most depressing place I could think of. And here you are, in the company of death."