Nobody knew he ever went to them. Why would he? It was hardly as if he had anyone to visit. He barely remembered his family; he couldn't recall any of his old friends. Even if he could, he didn't know where they were buried. So, as they did with most other things, they figured that he never went to any.

She knew the truth, mainly because she always went with him.

It was misty out when they got there, but not quite yet rainy. The chilly New York air blew across their faces, but each of them ignored it, heading directly over to their usual bench; the one under the frosty cherry tree. This was their spot. This is where they came to escape.

And to help.

The funeral procession carried on across the wet grass of the cemetery, the casket being lowered into the frozen ground as the family stood in a loose formation, crying. Holding each other.

The widow was far too young, but she held her head high. Her husband died bravely in war. She would carry on that courage if it took every last ounce of energy she had left. There was a time for crying. Now was not it. She refused to let him see her grieving because he got into heaven. She would be happy he was at peace. She wouldn't be selfish.

But what she didn't know was that she was getting aid from the beautiful stranger that sat motionless across the lawn.

He didn't send her much comfort. Barely enough for it to be detected. Just enough to hold her in place; to bring the feeling she had been wanting to know ever since she picked up the phone.

This is what he did.

He helped where he could. Alice would come with him, lending silent support and encouragement as the painful emotions of death hit him from all angles. And he would concentrate hard, forcing the peace to radiate off him enough to reach the other group.

He didn't know why he did. Maybe it was just to give back to the world. He had killed so many in his life; the least he could do was try and ease where he could. He knew that there had probably been hundreds of funerals and more to come because of him. He had caused the exact same thing he was witnessing at the moment to happen.

He felt guilt. He needed to give more to karma.

But it was more than that. There was peace in this place. Even through the endless tears, there was a soft content here that he didn't find anywhere else.

As an empath, he was constantly searching for a channel that felt good. He shied away from lust and power and greed.

The feelings that he wanted were here.

So he kept coming back. He and Alice would always return to this sacred, hallowed ground. They'd wait for it to be cloudy. They'd come to their worn bench beneath the tree; the one that somehow seemed warm and welcoming even surrounded by the dead. They'd watch another one be burried. They'd silently listen to the sermon from their spot. They'd watch the tears fall. Above all, they'd support.

And he could understand. He could relate to the nameless widow. He felt for her. He knew what she was going through. He recognized the familiar pain and embraced it with everything he had.

Because even though he had never once seen the gravestone of someone he loved, no one knew death like Jasper Hale.

12. He sought happiness in the graves.