It would have been her birthday, but she has gone long ago. She left and her grave followed, slipping into the earth. Last year he visited after dark and left pebbles next to Willow's, a sign that he had been there. That she was worth remembering.
This year he is far away. The air is crisp and full of dying leaves and cinnamon. He watches as the seasons change, surreal, and resists the chill on the front porch. Remus brings him spiced cider and sits at a calculated distance. Oz is curled compact, knees to chest.
Ghosts crowd between them.