It waits
That grave stands in a solitary position, a supreme level of isolation that was not even achieved by the occupant when he was breathing. No visitors come. The grey stone stands as a monument to one terrible sin.
During the day sometimes people pass by, there is witnessed a young girl laying flowers on her grandmother's grave. She is a pretty little thing, yes, that sentiment hangs in the air, in a little red dress and perfect little pigtails. A sweet Japanese red-riding-hood, the observation crunches under her patent leather shoes. Does she love Kira now?
And that is all that really shakes under her steps, that memory that lies where that man's skin wrenched itself into the soil, buried now, Light Yagami, among those mottled bones and that shuddering.
At night the wind howls, it cries out, it screams, it sighs through the boughs of the trees, it whispers delicately through parted leaves, then, then, it echoes in footsteps upon the street. Moving through the dark, glistening light of Tokyo, the heavy breath, through empty streets. Newspapers rustle and then one lone person passes by but there is nothing disturbed in this city for there is only one thought, one memory, one thought, one directive, one imperative, one purpose, one person.
And it passes with a sigh gently and then there is silence, there was always just the silence, the empty silence, all the way along to the expensive Tokyo apartment complex.