"Dead."
The word reverberated around the room, chilling him to the bone. No, it could not, would not be true. Death was not this. Death bespoke of rotting corpses and sights most foul, blood splattered on the wall and screams that rent the air. Death was awful and horrible and attention catching. It could not be like this. But staring at that peaceful face, he knew the truth.
Death was not a strange, grand monster that killed gaudily. For most, death is a quiet man who takes your hand and leads you away in the night. Death is not loud nor is it pretentious, no matter how much people like to think of it that way. It just is. And for fear of it visiting, people dare not speak of it, and silently pretend that it is not waiting outside the door.
And so, clutching onto an icy hand, he wept and wept, berating that quiet figure who had stolen away his lover in the night.