The wind howls and blows, playing with his hair and lifting his cloak. He walks through the cold streets, past the houses with their pumpkins and candles in their gardens. He moves past crowds of dressed-up children, past witches and demons and werewolves.
And into the village.
He passes the statue, but he does not look at it – he cannot – and so he moves on. The kissing gate swings open easily when he pushes it, and it closes quietly behind him after he's gone through it. He moves around the silent, dark church, and ends up in the graveyard.
Rows and rows of tombstones stretch out before him, as far as he can see. He walks past them, paying no heed to the names and dates, the beginnings and the endings, the loved and the lost. He doesn't need to: he knows where he's headed.
The headstone he's been looking for looms up before him, the white marble almost shining in the dark. He kneels before it, touches a hand to the cool stone. Strange that he could be so close to them, and yet so far away. Strange that they were blood and flesh once, when now all that's left of them are bones and dust beneath his knees.
He feels alone.
One finger moves to trace the engraved words upon the stones, to trace Lily and James and died. The letters seem too harsh and he can barely stand to look at them. 'The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death' – if only, if only.
His cheeks sting with cold, and he realizes he's crying.