Should there be birdsong here?

He wondered that as he stood by her headstone. It was a bright and cold day, the snow lightly covering the soft, rolling hills around him. The chattering of a flock echoed in the open space, twittering about things beyond what mere humans know. The sound made him weary. People seemed to want these noisy avians to stay for the winter, and so left suet and birdseed on the trees. It would not take much effort to pretend that he was in a park, not a cemetery. White flecks of ice started to float from the sky. She loved playing in the snow, he remembered. If he tried, he could pretend she was still with him.

The birds continued to sing in the empty space.

No. There shouldn't be any birdsong or light. Not here, without her.

Harrison had no more tears left.

Two weeks had passed since the car accident. The police questioned him immediately the day after he woke up, and once more after that. They poked and prodded at his memory, looking at each other when he mentions red lightning and a yellow-masked figure. The detective in charge was surprisingly gentle with his queries. Harrison practically bristled with irritation. He didn't want gentle; he wanted Tess back. He wanted justice. Honestly, he wanted the man who killed his wife dead. It wasn't long until even he had no more patience left for them.

("I know what I saw, officer." "What you saw was impossible, Dr. Wells. You must know—" "I know what I saw.")

What had happened was impossible; he knew it. So was the fact that Tess was dead, from a man in yellow, shrouded in scarlet lightning. He sighed. He never thought a day would come when he would curse his intelligence so thoroughly. Why doesn't any of this make sense...?

("Why would I lie about this?" "I don't know. You tell me. I only know what the evidence says." "And what does it say?")

It wasn't long until the police (and the public) wrote the death off as an accident, turning their eyes toward new events, new incidents, new threats. Harrison didn't blame them; if he wasn't involved, he would've done the same. If he didn't remember what he saw, he would've believed the evidence. If he didn't see the person who killed his wife, he wouldn't be so adamant on saying what he knew to be the (tragically ludicrous, because who kills people wearing such ridiculous clothes?) truth.

("That someone put a lot of effort into this.")

Tina was the only one who stood by him. He was glad. He didn't think he could stand losing anyone else so soon. While she didn't believe that Tess was killed by a man in yellow, she lent him her home, her companionship. He didn't—couldn't—go back to an empty house. Did he even want to try?

("What do you mean? And why would anybody want to do this?" "I don't know. What I do know is that a lot of things happened the night your wife died. Fires. Bank robberies. All of which happened too close to each other to be a coincidence. And I do know that the paramedics were called in by an anonymous individual who wasn't found at the scene.")

Harrison realized he didn't even know what was engraved on his wife's headstone. Tina chose the quote that was etched onto the white marble, its font and decorations. She took care of everything, he realized belatedly, from the funeral and its preparations to taking care of him. He would have to apologize later, he decided, and make it up to her somehow. Maybe flowers? A cup of her favorite coffee? He snorted at himself. The dilemmas of the living.

He wiped away the snow that gathered on the smooth rock before reading the inscription out loud.

("What are you implying, officer?" "Frankly? If this person wanted to kill you, he would've gotten away with it. There was no one else at the scene, no camera footage to speak of, and we were short-staffed with all the other incidents happening. There was no way we could've been there in time. So, why didn't he?")

"Home is wherever you are." Harrison felt his heart break a little more.

("I don't know. You tell me. I only know that I'm still here.")

Suddenly, he found the birds deafening. He cringed as a particularly loud squawk hurt his ears. He gritted his teeth. Silence was preferable right now. But, then again, maybe not. It was quiet, save for the flames, after the car flipped into the pole and crashed to the ground. It was too quiet when he woke, disoriented and hurt, next to his dead wife. Her hand was motionless when he grasped it clumsily, desperately, checking for a pulse. The world seemed to hold its breath as he cried, uncomprehending the disquieting stillness in his beloved. Yet, noise did not bring him comfort, either. When he woke in that stark hospital room, his mind was so loud when he realized that she wasn't coming back. Memories of him and Tess, alive and well and laughing—

"Harrison?" Tina's voice broke into his thoughts. He turned. She was a few steps away from him. He wondered at how he missed her before dismissing the thought. The birds really were too noisy here.

"It's time to go," she said gently. Normally, he hated being treated like glass, but he could never get mad with Tina. Especially after all she has done for him. He offered her a small smile. He knew his smile was a broken thing, but it was all he had at the moment.

Maybe they were right to treat him like fragile glass. They didn't know what else will fall apart.

"Okay," he replied, and they left the birds to their singing.

As night fell, he visited her again. Hardened snow accentuated his steps, announcing his approach with a loud crunch. The sky was clear and dark, the air brisk enough for him to wear a thick coat and a scarf. Cold stars shone beside a burnished hook-moon, their soft beams lighting the way for him. He stood at the foot of her grave, looking at the simple marble that marked her place in the ground. In his hand, he held a lily.

"Home is wherever you are," he breathed, reading the inscription. White puffs accompanied his speech, fading into wisps of air as he watched. He chuckled. "That would make me homeless, wouldn't it? A stray. A loner. I have no one, after all. When have I ever needed anyone?"

("...the truth is, I've grown quite fond of you. And in many ways, you have shown me what it's like to have a son.")

He sighed. "Sentiment. Quite a weakness to have, isn't it? Drives people to do stupid things." He cocked his head to one side, as though considering, and then laughed into the wind. It was a harsh sound. "What I'm doing now, though—it is stupid. No preparation, no double checking. Just another spontaneous visit. Dangerous. What if someone saw me? What if he saw me? How would I explain it?"

("...Forgive me, but you've been dead for centuries.")

He stood there in a comfortable silence. It was quiet here, not a soul in sight. Moonlight fell on her headstone, he noticed, making the marble have an inner radiance. The light seemed to want nothing to do with him, leaving him cloaked in shadow.

A thought occurred to him, and he smiled without realizing it. It was a small, sad, smile.

"Maybe it isn't a matter of need, sentiment... Maybe it is something necessary to live."

After a moment, Eobard placed the lily on Miss Morgan's headstone and left. He knew he had no place here, not even in the dark.