The wind whips the dark rags about him, stinging the lashes and the raw scars of their chains. He approaches, trembling.
In death, she is imperfect. Her face is sweeter than he remembers, without fire. Her nose is straight, lacking the tiny upwards tilt, her lips too full. Her left arm balances the child, an unnecessary stain, but the right hangs free, white fingers resting lightly on the air. Kneeling, he lets the pale hand find his cheek, forgets himself in the hollow nothingness of her marble benediction.
Suppliant in her monument's shadow, the terror of the wind is eased.