More than anything, he notices the cold.

How fitting, he thinks. It shouldn’t be a bright, sunny day. How very fitting. The reverend drones on beneath the crowded tent, his smooth, practiced words offering no comfort. The wind howls through the mass of people causing them to shudder and clench their coats more tightly. The air about the graveyard is bleak and gray, the gaily-colored flowers and wreaths standing in sharp relief against the leaden backdrop.

Garish, he thinks. A mockery.

Wrapping up the service with a quick prayer, the reverend walks over to Conrad and offers his mumbled condolences before scurrying off to his warm sedan. The rest of the gathered throng follows suit, offering their heartfelt if hurried apologies and the obligatory, “If there’s anything we can do,” before beating their own hasty retreat. Soon Conrad is left alone with the three caskets. The crusty old caretaker of the cemetery shuffles over to his side and stands silently for a moment, hat in hand.

“Son, I am truly sorry for your loss,” he says sincerely. “I’m in no hurry here. You take all the time you need.” At a nod from Conrad he ambles off to tend to other business.

He is unaware of the passage of time as he stands there, lost in thought. He barely notices the biting wind tugging at his coat, stinging his face.

“Moira, girls…” he chokes on the words. Falling to his knees before the smallest of the three coffins, he weeps.

And weeps.

Days drift into weeks, the weeks into nameless months. He honestly tries, but nothing is the same. Everywhere he looks, he sees their faces. Eventually, he stops going to work. He would drink himself to death, he thinks, but that would be an insult. Instead, he gorges himself on his grief, quaffing ceaselessly from a mug of sorrow. He no longer cares. He would end it were he not such a coward. Friends and family eventually can no longer bear to see him in such a condition and, one by one, they drift away, leaving him to his fate. A broken shell of a man, he slowly wastes away.

A year later, and Conrad has allowed himself a glimmer of hope, of life after death. He is back at work although at a lesser job, no longer caring for the trappings of success. His work now is tedious, mind-numbing, and he relishes it. He rides his bicycle when he needs transportation and lives very meagerly, but, at times, he feels himself smiling again. Life does indeed go on.

Then, riding home one day, he sees her. It’s all he can do to stay on the bike. He pulls to the side of the street and watches as she walks down the sidewalk. So young, so beautiful, the pain comes rushing back in a whirlwind of emotions. She goes up the steps and disappears into her apartment building.

He sees her again the next day. Again, he pulls to the side of the street and watches as she goes into her apartment. It becomes part of his daily ritual. Stop, watch her, make no contact. He couldn’t bear to speak with her.

It happens one day by pure accident. Ascending the steps, she drops an item from a grocery bag. Turning as she picks it up, she spies him. He looks markedly older than the last time she saw him, the blond hair streaked with gray. He wears a beard now which does little to hide the sad lines etched into his face. Still handsome, although now in a melancholy, tragic hero fashion, the bright blue eyes still sparkle even from this distance. Hurriedly, doing her best to pretend she doesn’t notice, she continues up the steps and disappears behind the door.

The second day, she decides she will speak to him. Stopping at the steps, she looks directly at him and then tentatively approaches.

“Mr. Shaver, is that you?” she asks, forcing a smile.

She thinks for a moment that he might actually bolt, but after a few panicked glances to the left and right, he seems to get control of himself and speaks.

“Ms. Fenley, h-how are you?” he stammers.

She phrases her words carefully, weighing each before she speaks, “Well enough, how about yourself?”

“I’m making it,” he replies, keeping his eyes on the ground.

Gabrielle Fenley’s heart breaks with sorrow as she realizes what this man must have gone through in the past year.

“Can I offer you a cup of coffee, Mr. Shaver?” she asks, her concern evident in her voice. “I’ve just opened a fresh can and I’ve got some gourmet cookies here in my bag. I’d be glad to share them with you.”

He hesitates just a moment.

“That would be nice. It’d be great to get out of this cold,” he says finally and follows her upstairs.

Once they are seated with steaming mugs of coffee and the delicious, fresh cookies, the conversation flows more easily. They talk of the weather, current politics, construction projects in the city, and all manner of meaningless topics. He can’t help but stare at her and think of how lovely she looks. Tall, lean, and in her early twenties, she is radiant with creamy, pale skin that perfectly complements her bright green eyes and curly auburn tresses. She smiles easily and often, warming the room. Her voice has an almost musical quality that he’s never noticed before. Her presence is calming and soothing, salve for his tattered emotions.

Inevitably, however, the conversation turns to the accident. He knew it would.

“Mr. Shaver,” she begins.

“Call me Conrad, please,” he insists.

“Okay, Conrad. Call me Gabby.”

“Okay, Gabby,” he says, testing the name on his tongue.

“Conrad, I just want to say again how sorry I am about what happened.”

He stares down at his cookie plate, knowing it had to come to this, but regretting it all the same.

“If there was anything I could do to change what happened, please know that I would,” she says. “If I could take their place, believe me, I would. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think about them.”

He sits silently for a moment, his eyes locked on the plate.

“Ms. Fenley,” he begins, “I wish I could say I don’t blame you for what happened, but that wouldn’t be true. I’ve really tried to forgive and forget, so to speak.”

Her hand goes to her mouth in pity and anguish.

He continues, “I’ve tried and tried to reconcile what happened. I’ve tried telling myself they’re in a better place. That it was meant to be. That everything happens for a reason.

“But I’m always selfish in the end. I always wind up wishing they were back here with me.”

“That’s perfectly understandable, Conrad,” she reassures him. “I really…”

“Please, let me finish,” he interrupts.

“Like I said, I always wind up wishing they were back here with me,” he pauses to take a deep breath, “and, like you, I wish you could take their place.”

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out the revolver which has been stowed away there for the past several days. Her eyes go wide with fear.

“I’ve really tried to get over it, and I thought I had succeeded somewhat, but then I saw you again. It’s not fair that they’re dead and gone while you go on living and laughing.”

He cocks the hammer back with a loud “click”.

“Mr. Shaver, Conrad, please understand… I… I,” she is almost hysterical with fright now. “I had been drinking, my boyfriend had just broken up with me.” Her voice rises in pitch until it is a half-screamed, half-sobbed jumble of words. “I didn’t mean to…”

“All the same, they’re dead,” he replies calmly and pulls the trigger.

The deafening report fills the room, the muzzle blast puffing her beautiful hair back as the bullet strikes her in the throat. She is thrown back in her chair, her head tilting back at a weird angle as blood starts to pour down the front of her blouse. She gurgles incoherently for a few moments, blood bubbling from the wound as the last bit of air from her lungs escapes through the ragged hole in her throat. Then she is still.

Numbly, Conrad mounts his bicycle and makes his way to the edge of town. He doesn’t realize where he is going until he arrives at the graveyard. Stiffly, he makes his way to where his dear family moulders in the moist earth. Once again falling to his knees, he sits for long moments, wracked by sobs.

Finally he looks up and wipes his eyes. The gravestones are just as they were when last he saw them. Their cold marble shines dully in the muted afternoon light. The earth is now beginning to settle over the bodies of his wife and daughters, dead these long months.

He takes out the pistol once again.

“Moira, girls…” he chokes.

“I’m coming.”

More than anything, he notices the cold.