The first, engraved with a name, a few dates, and 'Leader-Father-Well loved. He will be missed.', had a lonely yellow rose sticking out of the ground. "He really was well liked." The man would always reply.
The second, only slightly larger, was always kept neat, a potted plant on either side and the occasional balloon taped to the ground. When the man would look at it, his eyes would hold tears. The marker produced a sense of deep love, a chance that the dead would never get.
The third, a neat but always empty, lonely grave, gave him a sense that caring did exist in the world, only for him to jump back to reality realizing that cruelty had taken her out.
The fourth, he realized that he always looked at these in order at this point, was adorned with a few medals and a small, withering plant. At one point, he remembered, was a dark blue flower that had always tilted toward the marker.
And the last, the one most important to him, was bland, almost boring. Instead of whatever the other stones were made of, granite, perhaps, hers was made of marble. Pure, electrifying marble. It was an average size. Nothing like who it was supposed to represent. When he looked to this marker the tears burst from his eyes like they did every day.
On occasion, the anniversary of their- particularly her- death he would let the tears escape more so than most times, his throat emitting small cries.
Since their deaths he grew into a routine. Everyday he would do the same as the one before, drowning himself in the work that spewed over his desk. He never grew close to anyone, his face growing into a cold, hard mask he was unable to remove.
His emotions were rarely seen outside of the grave yard, unless someone were to mention those buried.
He would let his mind flutter to the occasion that put them there, always feeling the emotions and pain that he felt that day.
The building erupted in a boom, the walls falling to the ground like a child falling off a bike. It was a horrendous mess, metal tables and plastic chairs littered the site.
The first man, the one well loved, had been found dead at his desk, covering stacks of paper work he was signing off. In his lap, one that had been severely damaged as the chair had broken from underneath him at the bolt of the boom, was a tall glass bottle. Scotch.
The second and the fourth were huddled in what was once Trace, the slides still gripped in their severely burned hands, the seconds' eyes fused to the microscope.
The third, the youngest of the bunch, had been in the break room, her hands were neatly folded like they had been much of the time when she was alive. The sense of grief and sympathy still etched into her face, understanding in her eyes.
The fifth, the one he cared about most, was found in what was the hallway, a body -his-, hovering over her protectively, once trying to shield her from the blast. She was the most damaged, and for that reason, he blamed himself. Her clothes were in rags, her face disfigured from the bomb. The right hand of hers was tightly entangled in his, his face over her cheek, his lips in a kiss.
In his pocket, one of the firemen realized, was a diamond ring, engraved with the woman's name. His other hand was clutching it almost as protectively as the woman.
He twitched his badly charred face momentarily before they were to begin wrapping him in a body bag, the fireman yelling for EMS and Emergency Rescue.
But that wasn't enough to save the one below him. Nothing would ever be enough, worth enough, to trade for her.
She was just too valuable.
As he looked over the graves, he mumbled, "You were great people, Macy, Bug, Lily, Nigel." He came across the last one and sighed. "You were perfect Jordan, I loved you so much, you'll never really know how much now. I wish I could have you back."
It was the same thing he said every day, followed by a turn, heading off to work, like always.
Avoid people and do his job.
He could never love anyone as much as the people that had died.
And finally, two years after the bombing, he couldn't take it anymore. He let the grace of God penetrate his soul, filling him. In his last moments, after he had fired the gun, he could hear her voice, angelic, loving, pained. "No, Woody, don't!" It screamed.
"I'm coming Jordan." He whispered.