They get takeout and sit in the car. The rain falls down in sheets, and the October mist snakes up the gravel, the tires, fogs up the windows.
"Never understood all these," Aura mutters, pointing a fat chip at the benches opposite them. "I mean, what is there to enjoy when you're six feet under?"
Simon snorts.
Then Aura grows silent, pausing mid-chip: it's been ten years.
Ten years; she's forty now. She's been apart from her for more years than she knew her.
In the corner of her eye she sees Simon stop, put his kebab box on the dashboard; reach out to her.
"Don't—"
But Simon's already taken her hand into his, squeezing it tight like a lifeline. Tighter.
He looks ahead at the coastline, at that claggy grey expanse, the way it swallows up everything around it, consumes it whole.
Ten years on, the coppery smell, sight, of blood lingers.
Yet, still, none of it feels real.
His Adam's apple bobs in his throat; up and down, up and down.
A shuddering breath, and Aura turns sharply; his lips are quivering.
"I...miss her," he says thickly.
Aura swallows; sets her box on the dashboard too.
"Come here, you," she manages, breath hitching, reaching across, pulling him into her.
She holds him firmly, his head buried in the crook of her neck, mindlessly twirling his dark locks in her fingers. Like he's only four and hurt himself on the monkey bars, like he's eleven and just realised he might like boys, like he's twenty and being led away.
"...I miss her too," she says quietly into his hair.
That does it.
Simon inhales sharply, chokes out a sob as she grips him tighter.
They can't stop it now; ten years lost, ten years too late, the sight of the katana on the floor, the dusty boxes of wedding arrangements, bottling everything up, the concrete-walled screaming matches, everything wound up so tightly—
They break down.
They.
Break
Down.
