Distance
From a distance, she looks still, and quiet. It's only when you move closer, you can hear the soft whimpers and quiet sniffs over the whistle of the wind; and only up close can you see the shivers constantly running through her body, a combination of grief and cold.
You don't know what to do for her. None of you do. For weeks there was grief; raw, unbridled grief. During those weeks, you barely saw her. She hid from you, from all the crew, because all you could give her was sympathy, and that didn't help.
Now she sits there, so still, so quiet. It almost looks like she's at peace, as if she has accepted what happened.
But you know she hasn't, and she won't – if she ever does – for a long time yet.
Up close, close enough that you can lay a hand on her shoulder and tell her it's time to go, you can see how her skin lies grey and loose over jutting bones. How did you miss that before? She's not just a colleague, she's a friend.
"How long since you've eaten?"
Your voice sounds as cold and empty as the wind, and it's no wonder she turns away from the soft contact on her shoulder. Again, all you can give is useless sympathy, because she refuses to accept warmth or comfort.
It's impossible to say whether she can't feel the cold, or whether she wants to feel it; but, either way, sitting here in the winter wind isn't good for her, or you.
"Let's go. The ship sails in twenty."
She stands, suddenly, sharply. Without another glance at the headstone, she stalks towards the exit. You follow more slowly, and the distance between increases.
When she's far enough away, you sigh, the expression bordering on relief. You can no longer see how badly her hands are shaking. You can pretend that they're not.