She stood there a long time, unbowed by the years, but holding herself steady with a horn-handled walking stick. The funeral had been a week ago: she hadn't realised how many friends they had – all prepared to stand out in the driving December rain to honour a good man. She was here now, on her own, to see the headstone which, in a way, was the reason they'd come to live here, all those years ago. She remembered...
They'd been about to leave, when he'd called her back, to come and look at it a gravestone for someone with the same name as his own. She turned, only to see him vanish before her eyes. She'd had no choice. She had to follow, though it had been the hardest decision of her life to leave everything she knew, everybody (but one) that she loved, knowing that she'd never see them ever again. And then the two of them were together again, their previous life forever inaccessible and an unknown new life before them – no more adventuring, just the one adventure that everyone knows: that of not knowing what tomorrow may bring.
They'd made a good life for themselves, here in Manhattan. They'd scraped enough money together to make a few investments, which had turned out to be much wiser than their friends and advisors had thought they would be. Their 'luck' held and they had become moderately wealthy, though not wealthy enough to draw unwelcome attention to themselves.
...and now it was over. He lay underneath the stone that had brought him here. She read the words inscribed upon it once more:
IN LOVING MEMORY
RORY ARTHUR WILLIAMS
AGED 82
'Aged 82' she thought. Well that's what they'd told everybody. The fact was that they didn't really know any more, what with one thing and another, but 82 seemed about right for the age of their bodies.
She thought she would have some more words added to the stone when her time came. She'd mention it to Anthony. She already had a job for him to do after she'd gone – probably quite a while after she'd gone, so getting a few words put on a headstone would be just one more task for him. He was a good boy: they'd all been good; her boys.
As she turned to leave, the evening light on the stone reminded her of Welsh slate.
She did a double take: "Hey Stupid-face, we never went and waved at ourselves in Cwmtaff. Do you think we get another go? It wouldn't be the first time."