Again, English is not my native/first language. If you find an annoying writing error in this story, please email me (instead of mentioning it in a review) and I will correct it immediately.

Author's note: Thank you all so much for the positive feedback! It means a lot to me. Now for part 2…

When the Voice is Quiet

By Karin

The man stares absent-mindedly over the graveyard. He has buried his hands deep in the pockets of his black coat. He is all dressed in black. Appropriate for these surroundings, but particularly appropriate for his mood.

His back is slightly bowed as if he has a heavy burden to carry on his shoulders. Sharp lines mark his weary face. And his eyes… They're the eyes of a man who has gone through a lot, who has seen too much misery in his life. He can hide it well, not letting his emotion show on his face, but if you look closely you can see the immense sorrow in the depths of his blue eyes.

He looks like he hasn't slept well in days. The dark bags under his eyes confirm that and it is true. Every night he wakes up, bathing in sweat.

His eyes snap open and he sits up in his bed, her name on his lips. Cold sweat is pouring down his back and his body trembles from the confusion of his nightmare.

His hand automatically reaches for the other side of the bed, expecting to find her lying next to him. He wants to touch her warm back, bury his face in her soft hair and breathe in her sweet scent. But when he lays down his hand, it only touches the cold fabric of the sheets. There's no one lying next to him. She's not there; he's alone. He pulls back his hand and clasps it against his chest, breathing deeply in an attempt to slow down the irregular and escalated beating of his heart.

Then he looks up. His gaze desperately wanders about his bedroom until it locks onto the door. Although his mind tries to reason with him, his heart is telling him a different story. He's waiting for her to show up, to tell him that she couldn't sleep and went downstairs to make her a cup of warm milk. And to slip under the sheets again, so that he can warm her cold body with his.

The hope in his eyes fades as he realizes that she will not appear in the doorstep ever again. Slowly he lets out the air he's unconsciously been holding and painfully closes his eyes. His face is contorted with sadness.

These moments are the hardest to get used to. Not having her in his bed anymore, never feeling her warm skin to his. He will never hear her laughter, never see the sparkle in her eyes and never hear her say: 'I love you.'

The thought that he will never get that back is what hurts him the most. It has taken him a long time to deal with that pain. At first, the first couple of days after her death, he walked around in a daze. He went about in his daily routine, and immediately set to work again. Although everyone advised him to take a few days off, to take some time for himself and his daughter, he couldn't. His work offered him the distraction he needed, and as usual he suppressed everything. He did not want to feel anything. It was easier that way than having to deal with the feelings that her loss brought about in him. It hurt too much.

And it still hurts. Her death has left a void in him. He feels incomplete without her, hollow even. There were times that the feeling was so strong that he even thought he was just as dead as she was, but coming here to her grave has helped him in accepting the inevitable.

For the first time since the funeral he stands there, staring at the letters that form her name. The name of the woman he loves so dearly. His fingers trace the outline of the words etched in the stone before him.

He knows that she's lying there, only a couple of meters underneath him. He knows that she is never coming back, that the chapter of that part of his life has been written and the book closed. He knows all that, but he doesn't feel anything. No anger, no sorrow, no pain… Absolutely nothing. Because it doesn't mean anything. The gravestone, the turned up soil, the casket under the ground… They mean nothing, because they aren't who she is. This isn't her. Not the way he loves her, not the way he remembers her. Her body may be lying here, but not her spirit. Her spirit is everywhere; no one can ever bury that part of her.

He can still feel her. Her presence is still in the house, at work, and everywhere he goes. She lives on inside of him, demanding a special place in his heart and keeping the memories alive. The memory of a life together is the most precious legacy she has left behind for him, for them.

With the outmost respect for her, for all she meant to him, he lays down a single red rose on her grave. He opens his mouth to say those final words, but then he turns around and walks away.

Right then and there the sinking feeling made place for resignation. She is gone forever, and nothing he can say or do will change that. It's hard, especially since there ís still so much he wants to tell her, so much he wants to do. He wants to say 'I love you' one more time, being afraid that maybe – because of his reticence and his inability to express his feelings well – she didn't know how much he loved her, how much he still loves her. He wants to hold her close to him, touch her face and commit every curve of her body, every line in her face to memory.

But he's too late, and now he has to let go. He has gone through all of the phases of the dealing process: unbelief, anger, sorrow and finally acceptance. He has dealt with her loss. He had to, if not for him than certainly for his daughter.

'My little girl.'

His heart wrenches when the memories of the day his wife died come flooding back. They called him at work. He was working on a complex murder case when his phone rang. It was the police.

'We are sorry to inform you that your wife…'

They don't need to say more. He already knows. Shock, unbelief and confusion take turns as he sits there, listening to the engaged signal. He shakes his head bewilderedly, trying to dismiss everything the police just told him. His mind is cloudy, unable to grasp what is happening. Then, slowly as in a daze he puts down the receiver and grasps his coat.

As he steps into the hallway, he starts to walk faster. He hears voices behind him. Familiar voices, asking him where he's going, but he doesn't answer them. A woman calls after him. 'Is everything all right?' But he can't react.

And when he sees her lying in the passageway of the supermarket he knows that everything is far from all right. Nothing will be the same anymore; everything has changed. The life as he knows it does no longer exist. A lump forms in his throat and his stomach contracts. He drops down on his knees next to her and takes her hand in his. It's so cold, so lifeless. Not her hand anymore.

'No, please no.'

His own hand travels up to her face and tenderly caresses her cheek. Her eyes are closed. He regrets that he can't look into her beautiful brown eyes one last time. He mutters her name softly, almost afraid of saying it. He wants to scream and yell, anything to make her open her eyes again, but all he does is whisper. Even now he withdraws into his own emotion. Instead of giving into his grief and pain, he denies it, he locks it up.

From the outside he looks totally in control. His face is blank, his back is straight and his eyes sharp. But it's only a disguise, only an attempt to hide his feelings from the rest of the world. Because from the inside he feels like he's falling apart. At that moment, at that place a part of him dies with her. He's cold, as cold as a person can be, just as cold as she is going to be. And he's numb. His whole body feels numb. His arms, his legs, but mostly his heart.

Everything has been taken away from him, taken out of his hands. There's nothing he can do anymore, nothing to save her life, nothing to keep her with him. He's powerless. It's the worst feeling he has ever felt before in his life.

He sits there for what seems like hours, just staring at her face. Although he pays no attention to the commotion around him, he knows what they're doing: collecting evidence of the shooting and talking to any eyewitnesses. The investigators cast uncertain looks at him. They're not sure what to do with him. He does not show any intention of leaving, and his presence at the crime scene stands in the way of their investigation. But no one dares to come up to him and tell him to leave. They won't, because they can understand his pain and they can relate to his sorrow.

He does not want to leave, because if he does it will mean a farewell. These are the last moments given to him to be with her. He's been taken the chance to properly take leave of her. This is only a poor substitute, but it's all he has. He presses his lips against her cold fingers. The same fingers she touched his face with that morning. Her touch was so tenderly, so full of love.

"Mr.?" The soft, hesitant voice of a policewoman. He doesn't react; he doesn't even hear her. He can't think of anything else than the woman who's lying on the ground in front of him. The policewoman clears her throat and asks again: "Mr.? Your daughter…"

Slowly her words get through to him. The fog in his mind is lifting; it starts to clear up again and the meaning of her words hit him hard. "My daughter?" An anxious foreboding surges through him as he realizes what that means. 'God, what has she seen?'

He tears his gaze from his wife and looks up, searching for the one person he did not expect here, the one person who shouldn't be here. There she is, sitting on a chair. Her eyes are downcast, her hands clutched. She is the one who makes him let go of his wife's hand, who forces him to say goodbye. Reality changes. What was important only a few minutes ago, his life and what was taken from him, isn't important anymore.

He stands up and walks to her. Without a single word he throws his arms around her and holds her close. She doesn't embrace him. Instead she drops her arms stiffly to her side. Her pale face lacks all expression; her eyes have lost their childish innocence. It troubles him. This isn't his daughter anymore. This is a stranger.

His face darkens. Even now the memories still trouble him. She didn't react to anything he said. She just sat there, staring into space. Her eyes were wide open, but he doubted whether she saw anything. He couldn't get through to her. Not on the day his wife died, and not in the days following. Then came the funeral.

After the solemn funeral everyone leaves the graveyard. One by one, until he's alone with his daughter. He takes her small hand in his and squeezes it. His hand is warm, a little clammy even, hers is icy-cold. It sends a shiver down his spine. He tries to talk to her, but again she doesn't react. It almost seems as if she doesn't even hear him. With hollow eyes and a sharp twist to her mouth she looks straight ahead. He does not know what to say or do. He can't seem to find the words. He never does.

He knows that people often think that he's a cold and insensitive man, and maybe they're right, maybe he is, but not when it concerns his daughter. She has become his life. She gets to see the part he hides from others. He can't be cold and insensitive to her. Especially not now. She's all he has left now. His own grief is of no importance. There's no time or room for it. He has to be there for her.

All of his attention is focused on her. She is important, more important even than his work. For all these years his work was all he could think off, until she was born. The emotions she brings about in him are overwhelming and frightening at the same time. The feelings are so strong that for once in his life he can't hide them or lock them away. Although she probably doesn't even know it, he loves her so much – he has never loved anyone that much – and it breaks his heart to see her like this. Every day her small, pale face becomes smaller and her eyes bigger. She doesn't want to eat; she doesn't want to talk. All she does is sleep, huddling herself into fetus position the same way victims always do. She can't get any rest though, because the same night her mother died the nightmares began.

He can't sleep. Disturbing thoughts and memories keep his sleepy mind awake while his body is screaming for rest. He doesn't want to go to sleep though. Some people say that the morning is the hardest part of the day, but for him it's the night. Not because of his dreams – they're so lifelike that they almost seem real and he takes comfort from it – but because he always wakes up from them in the middle of the night only to find himself in a live with shattered dreams.

With a deep sigh he stands up and walks over to his daughter's bedroom. It has become a routine. He checks up on her every night, just to make sure that she's still in her bed, that he hasn't lost her as well. His daughter, his little girl.

He stands in the doorway, staring at her. She's restless in her sleep, making convulsive moves with her arms and legs. Uttered smothered cries betray a horrible nightmare. Her lips move and she mumbles the words he doesn't want to hear. A chill makes its way through his entire body as if an icy-cold hand clasps his heart.

'No… No, don't shoot. Please, not my mommy. Noooo!'

She jerks up in her bed, straight into his arms. He can only hold her close and stroke her sweaty back and trembling body. He tries to soothe her, but there's nothing he can say. He can't tell her that it was just a dream, or rather said a nightmare. He can't say that everything will stay the way it was, that everything will be all right. He can't, because he is not so certain that everything is going to be all right. She's so upset, so frightened by what she has seen and experienced.

He has tried several times to make her talk about what happened in the supermarket, but every time he comes too close, she withdraws into herself. She doesn't want to let him in or let him help her. Just as secretive as he was and still is, so secretive is she as well. Like father, like daughter. For the first time he can understand how frustrating that must have been to others, to her.

He is so deep in thoughts that he doesn't notice the little girl entering the graveyard. He startles when he hears the sound of someone approaching on the shingle and immediately he hides behind a tree. It is she. He's certain of it. He knew she was coming. He witnessed her struggle that morning, and when she told him she was probably coming home later, he knew what was going on. And so he waited for her after he visited his wife's grave.

His daughter walks straight to the grave. She kneels down next to it. In her hands she's holding a bouquet of wild flowers. He watches as she arranges her flowers on the grave. He's glad that she has come. Maybe now she will be able to accept it. Maybe seeing the grave will help her in a way he couldn't.

And she does, only not in the way he hoped for. Instead of silently accepting it, maybe with some tears, she suddenly starts to moan, rocking herself back and forth. Then it happens. The moment he will never forget, the moment that will probably always haunt him in his nightmares.

He freezes when she lets out a cry. It's rough, sounding like an animal in terror. It's so heartrending, filled with so much pain, that it makes his skin crawl. The blood drains from his face. His mouth becomes dry, shivers run down his spine and he takes in shuddering gulps of breath.

"No," he murmurs shakily.

Tears appear in his eyes. He lets them run unashamedly over his cheeks. He doesn't care. Everyone may see him cry, although it's probably something most people would be shocked to see. No one has ever seen him cry. He can't even remember the last time he cried. However, this is his daughter. He cries for her, for her pain. The same pain he himself knows so well.

He clenches his fists, trying to breathe more slowly and restrain himself. He swallows hard, in an attempt to get rid of the knot in his chest, as he observes the scene before him. He's taken aback. He didn't expect this, didn't expect to see her like this. He wants to go to her, take her in his arms and hold her close, but he can't. He stands rooted to the spot, and he has to watch how his daughter goes through the same phases as he went through before.

His throat tightens. It takes him all of his strength not to interfere with her mourning process. It is her fight, not his. She has to come in terms with what happened. She has to realize that her mother is really gone. She has to embrace her sadness, and give it a place in her heart. She has to cherish the memories instead of pushing them away.

She has to do all that, and he can't be a part of it. But that doesn't mean that it's easy for him to stand around watching how his daughter tells God that she hates Him, throws away her things and then falls on the ground, curling herself up like a kitten.

It starts to drizzle. The wind is rising again, resumes his game with the leaves. They blow over the tiny body of the girl on the ground. The wind covers her with leaves, while the rain soaks her clothes.

He looks at his watch. It is time.

To Be Continued…

I hope you liked this story. Please write a review to let me know what you think of it and if you would like to read the final part. Thank you! - Karin -