He had a routine. Every Tuesday morning, she was born on a Tuesday, he visit her. He brought flowers, Asters, white Camellia, Hibiscus, pink Lilacs, Orange Blossoms, always with Baby's Breath. Sometimes he'd bring some little trinket, a stuffed bear or toy, something he'd seen and been reminded of her.
But mostly, he came and talked. He talked about the world, about memories, never about his work, that was too gruesome. Sometimes he told her about his co-workers, about the people helping him on his self appointed quest. He knew she'd have them wrapped around her little fingers. Lisbon and Cho would smile, Rigsby would be helpless against little girl dimples and curls and Grace would be reminded of her little nieces back home.
Then again, if she were still here, he probably never would have met them.
Every Tuesday morning, he knelt on dewy grass, deft fingers tracing delicate lettering carved into pure, white marble.
Every Tuesday morning, he began with the same question, "How's my little girl?"
There was never an answer as Patrick poured out his heart to the stone that marked the grave of his daughter. His daughter, taken from the world before she'd even had a chance to really live her life.
His daughter who, because of one man's malevolence, would never grow old, would always be Patrick's little girl.
