You.
You sit there, watching her with pain filled eyes, as she tries to go about her day, cooking and cleaning and other trivial things that will never matter.
You see her snuggle into your old cloak, worn and red.
Then, you see her turn in for the night, checking on your children before she herself goes to bed.
You watch her stop to caress your son's golden-blonde hair, and kiss the head beneath it.
You hear her whisper goodnight to him, and she returns to what used to be your bedroom.
She undresses, and puts on one of your shirts, the one with the black dragon like creature on the front that she got you for Christmas.
You watch her idly watch T.V for a few minutes, before deciding it not worthy and clicking the television off.
You see her climb into the king-sized bed, clutching the pillow on your side, and burying her face into it.
You hear her soft, angst-filled sobs as she clutched the tear stained pillow. You wish to go to her, to comfort her. You feel tears go down your own cheeks.
You desperately wish it wasn't this way.
But it is. You are dead.
You can't touch her, or comfort her.
You can only watch, and listen to her.
You are helpless, no use to her now.
But you stay.
You can't bear to tear yourself away from this woman.
You don't want to leave.
You want to see her get better, and move on, and then, so will you.
You feel a hand on your shoulder, it is your mother, clasped hands with your son, who died shortly before you.
You whisper, "Mom, she.." your mother shushes you, and your son hugs your legs.
You pick him up, and prop him on your hip.
Your mother nods, understandably, "I know, my son. But there is nothing we can do for her. You'll be reunited someday. "
You know this to be true, but your father is watching over your little brother.
You take a look at her, and silently blow a kiss, before following your mother into where you go when you can't watch anymore that day.