The graveyard was quiet and empty but for one man. He stood alone with the hood of his raincoat pulled over his face, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and his shoulders hunched forward against the cold teardrops of the sky. He faced a tombstone that was remarkably ordinary but for the dates written on it; the man who was buried there had only been twenty-seven years old.
"It's been a while." The hooded man began. "I know you've probably been getting impatient."
He paused, as if waiting for the tombstone to answer. It didn't. It sat there, rain drops dripping down it, just like any other stone in the yard. It was a disgustingly plain monument, the hooded man mused, to such a person as his friend had been.
"I want to tell you that I've been keeping an eye on the kids. I installed cameras all over the house the last time I was there. Your wife's been really busy, so I don't think she'll notice, but that father of hers…" The man allowed himself a rueful smile. "He hasn't lost his touch yet."
The man looked up, letting the rain fall cold on his face. It felt good, and with his head tilted upwards there was no way for his eyes to wander back to the smooth rock that stood over his friend.
"That punk kid you were training is getting good. Not as good as you, for sure, but better than he was when he started out." He huffed a laugh. "I remember thinking you were crazy to make a protégé out of some kid you barely knew. But I guess I underestimated you. Again."
The man looked back down, raindrops still falling down his face. "I really miss you, you know. I didn't think it would hurt like this…" He took a deep, shuddering breath. "You did so much for me. I just wish I could've been…fast enough…to save you." He looked away briefly. "They say only the good die young, so if you were right about me I might see you sooner rather than later."
He turned to leave, but two steps later and he was looking back at the gravestone. "I'll try to come again soon. Things have been crazy for the city and the League lately. But I will try." He turned back toward the exit. "Until next time, my brother."
Nobody would have noticed, but there was a disturbed patch of dirt next to the headstone. It was only about one inch by two inches, but if one was to look closely it was definitely there. If one had thrust their fingers into the dirt and dug around until they hit something sharp and cold, they would have found a tiny arrowhead with a lightning bolt carved into it. But nobody looked and the arrowhead laid buried beside the headstone in secret, just as the dead man had lived the pivotal years of his life.
Here Lies Barry Allen
Son, Friend, Father, Husband, Hero
May the Spirit carry you to the Father's side in a flash