I found this on my hard drive when I recently moved to a new department at work. I've never published anything, but wanted to give it a try, especially since I've been bitten by the writing bug again. Feedback would be most appreciated.

He visits her grave every Sunday – that is, every Sunday that crisis allows.

The simple stone where her name is etched serves as a testament to her selflessness and devotion, an unwavering devotion to her country, but an even stronger devotion, to him. It also serves as a lasting reminder of what he nearly had, what was torn from him, and why the ache in his heart will not cease, until it no longer beats.

The burning memory of the last few moments they spent together are all he has left of her - a hurried goodbye on a cold dock, a kiss that should have been a beginning, not an ending, and something wonderful left unsaid - hardly enough to last a lifetime.

Regardless of the pain it causes him, he sits beside her grave on a lonely bench and he talks to her. He talks to her as though she were sitting beside him. He provides updates about her former colleagues at Thames House, regales her with stories of his youth and his adventures in the service, and at his most melancholy, he talks about plans for their future which sadly amount to nothing more than a collection of dreams for a future that cannot be.

He silently wonders where she is, what she's doing in this very moment and then selfishly hopes that he still crosses her mind from time to time. It's not fair to hope for such a thing, and while he admonishes himself for the thought, he still wishes it true.

His heart beats a dull thump in his chest these days – the days since she left. And sometimes he feels like he's slipping away from himself, the sacrifices have become too personal and that reasons to go on have become fewer.

So, he comes here, not just to remember, but to make sure he never forgets. Remembering restores his perspective and renews his sense of duty. If he gives up now, everything that he's lost, was lost in vain.

She was his anchor of sanity in a sea of constant chaos, and he's not the same without her. How could he be? He had come to rely on her in ways that she probably hadn't realized. Her quiet strength and determination made her a force of nature. Her absence in his life is immeasurable, but he's determined to continue fighting.

Before he leaves, he places a single red rose upon her stone. He removes the leather glove from his hand, kisses his fingertips and gently places them on the stone, next to the rose. Standing that way for a moment, he drops his head and utters four words aloud, "I love you Ruth." It's no longer something wonderful that was never said. In this place, it's a prayer.