I.
It has been a month since he's gone away. Gone away. Doesn't it sound so much nicer than passed away? Luna prefers it because it implies hope. Any second, Dean could walk through that door with a goofy grin and "Sorry I'm late." just like he's done hundreds of times before.
Her bones scream that she's alone. The lines on her face and the streaks of silver in her hair remind her that she's aging without him.
Luna supposes it shouldn't bother her. Once, she'd spent years alone, always the outcast little Ravenclaw. Why should now be any different?
But it is different. Dean had taken her hand countless times before. He'd whispered promises of forever before pressing gentle kisses to her knuckles.
She had believed him. Somehow, she had been sure that they would live out their days together, that they'd never be apart. Perhaps she'd simply been young enough then to still believe in miracles and fairy-tales. Poor, young, naive Luna, still so certain that the world is a beautiful place where happily ever after isn't just for children's books.
The truth is, she still wants to believe.
II.
Autumn is the hardest season. The trees are naked and cold, and their leaves crunch beneath her feet.
Once, Dean had said that autumn is the most romantic of all the seasons. He had told her that there is nothing more beautiful than leaves falling like they're in love with the ground.
"I like spring better," she had told him. "It's a reminder that beautiful things happen with patience."
He had laughed at that. Not the cruel laugh of those who found everything she said ridiculous, but a kind laugh of someone who understood. "I know. That's why you're my spring."
OoOoO
Luna feels just as naked and lonely as those trees as she walks through the graveyard. New leaves always come around. Hope always blooms anew when springtime comes out to play.
But what of that stretch of time between when there is only cold and bitterness? How can trees keep living when everything that had made them beautiful has left them?
"You would know," she whispers to Dean's grave. "You always had the answers that only an artist could give."
He could breathe beauty into even the most hopeless things. But he is gone now. Her leaves have fallen, but the ground wasn't enough. Her leaves are far below the surface, and her branches will never grow new ones again.
III.
It takes months to sort through all of his things. Most of that time has been spent praying for the strength to do so. Because Luna isn't a bold Gryffindor as Dean had been. She is a Ravenclaw, all wit and logic. But there is nothing logical about this.
His belongings fall into boxes, little prisons to hold away the memories. One box, two boxes, three. Too many, and their house (her house, she mentally corrects. She is alone, and it is her house now.) looks empty and wrong when she moves his things to the attic.
IV.
She only keeps out his sketchbooks, and every night she looks through one.
Fantastic creatures, real and imaginary. The sea at Shell Cottage. The forest from his time on the run. Page after page of her face through the years. So many things, captured forever in ink, more perfect than any photograph could ever hold.
She wishes he'd done just one self portrait.