He follows her: the woman in white with her back and arms bare to the light; a ghost beside her grave. Untroubled; pure; he finds himself unable to do anything else. Out the door, to the graves, his eyes trail after her, and he's so close — so close — and then she's gone, not even between one blink and the next.
That's when it hits him, in disjointed thoughts; in flinching realizations; that this isn't right, to see her here, but he turns and turns, searching, rubbing at his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. And then, there; her face turning, the curve of a cheek, the angle of a cheekbone!
She begins to walk, this woman unstained by the hell this world's become. He runs after her, glancing again and again because he refuses to lose sight of this woman: he has to know —
Between the gates she travels; she's leading him beyond the gates, beyond the fence. And he can't stop the way his heart leaps, kicks into overdrive; the way he has to grab at the rifle strapped over his shoulder to stop its bouncing at his hip. He can't stop sprinting, though, because why would he want to? He knows who she is, though he's almost afraid of the truth; almost afraid of how much he wants the truth to be wrong.
He slows at the bridge, where she stands straight and lovely; all graceful lines and wrists and dark brown hair; shoulders, the curve of her back, the folds of the white dress so — so —
Oh, Lori, he thinks, and in response she faces him; and her face is gentle and peaceful and this is his wife, so beautiful and idealistic and Lori, Lori, Lori.
She smiles ever so softly, but sad and no, Lori, don't look that way; it's too close to home, the way she's looking at him now.
His eyes — eyes that haven't rested in days — burn acutely, but they refuse to waver as her pale hand with her delicate wrists lift. His breath stops, because he is afraid of this moment: afraid of the possibilities that trap him on both sides. That she is real; real enough to further confuse him, or that she isn't, and his heart will fracture, taking the rest of his mind with it, splitting it to pieces.
Then her hand touches his cheek, and he reacts instinctively: an exhale, a release of the tension in his shoulders, his eyes shutting as he simply absorbs the way —
— the way it doesn't feel quite so solid. His heart clenches in pain as her left hand joins her right, and the cold metal press of her wedding ring is felt against his unshaven cheek.
He doesn't touch her, but she presses her forehead to his lips, and he can't help but bow his head, just a little, eyes blinking furiously though clenched tightly shut.
I miss you, Lori, he says; he thinks; he feels.
And in his mind, her voice is a murmur, I know.