"Hey," he says, lifting up a hand (or is it a claw? He's not very certain what it would be considered in this instance) and reaching out towards her hair, pulling loose the carefully crafted pigtails and running his lithe fingers through her bluebell hair, "maybe it'll get better."
"I—I don't know, Chat," when she removes her eyes from her feet so he can see them clearly they're filled with tears, saline water about to brim over.
"Oh, Princess, don't cry—" and then he's holding her, her face pressed against the leather of his chest, a deluge of tears almost succeeding in drenching his suit.
Pedestrians passing by look confused as to why Chat Noir is holding a civilian, but none comment as they rush past the pair. Stranger things have happened in the past few years—a man dressed in leather holding a girl who looks like she's breaking down isn't odd anymore. Perhaps the hero was trying to help a poor girl in need of emotion, not wanting an akuma to ruin his afternoon.
Far from the truth.
None of them, after all, were strolling at the right angle to notice the graveyard in front of the two and the fresh tombstone meters away.
If they had been close enough they might have noticed the inscription.
They might have understood.
Sabine Cheng
1974-2010
Loving Wife, Mother, and Friend
—
some love lasts forever
i come from a culture which cremates, not buries, so i've never seen a grave . . . correct me if i did the wrong thing here