The cold air stung the tips of his fingers as he clutched the bouquet.
"I've brought these for you." His voice was soft, airy like the puffs of steam that escaped his lips as he spoke. His throat hurt. He shuffled his feet, the snow below them crunching as he shifted his weight
"I'm sorry I'm a little late," he continued. "I had a few students come to me after class with some questions. I apologize for that."
His throat began to burn. He clenched his jaw. Really? It had been ten bloody years. He still made these routine trips. His heart still clenched when he thought about what they had, what they could have had. Other people would be over this by now. Moved on.
Well, he did still wear that damned hat, after all.
He gripped the bouquet tighter, but he didn't feel the piercing of the rose thorns breaking through the paper around their stems and tearing through his skin.
His blood, the same brilliant red of the roses, trickled off of the stems and onto the pale snow before the grave. It looked as though the roses themselves were being drained of their color.