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They stayed long after the coffin had been lowered and covered up. There was a quiet understanding that the young woman was going to grow old in the earth. Maria remembered all the imperial funerals she’d been to, crowds, and ceremony. Not to mention the lying-in-state, but here? Here it was just her and Lily, but that had been true for a quite some time now. As they lingered, the sun set, and the street lights flickered on. Maria remembered, with a soft, sad, smile all the letters. Dotted with lies and false promises, every single one. Now, it was all done. The old woman who couldn’t let go, rewarded, vindicated, just as she was about to give up. Had she reached the rainbow’s end, at last?
The cold contemplation evaporated for a moment, the tears of the past decade welled up her eyes. She spoke, in Russian, “Nastya, why did I leave you?”
Lily almost spoke, but thought better of it, opting to stand a little farther from Maria, to give her privacy, instead. Vlad had wanted to come, but…
Well, he was a cobblestone in the path that led to this graveyard.
“I loved, I lost, and that’s just life, isn’t it dear?” Maria shook her head, “It shouldn’t have been this way. It shouldn’t. I tried to make it different, people must’ve thought— of course I don’t—” her head snapped up when she heard the sound of footsteps approaching.
A man in a long coat whose stride clearly was forced to be leisurely. His hat obscured his features in the semidarkness, making his age harder to discern. He might even be the same age as Anya is— was, perhaps slightly younger. He didn’t explain, he said nothing. Worn hands tightly in fists, cracked and as tired as Maria felt on the inside. He was as out of place as Maria was out of time.
Maria’s eyes widened, “What more could you possibly want? What else? I am old, but I am not yours yet!” She became frantic, and Lily rushed to her side, looking apologetically at the dark eyed stranger. Though, he did look awfully familiar.
In French, “She’s had a terrible loss,” Lily said.
In Russian, “I see.” he said.
Maria came back to herself, and pulled away from Lily, standing straight and looking regal, as much as she could. She stared up at him, “Forgive me, I am old but still a child.” Afraid of the dark.
He looked at the fresh grave, and then at Lily, “It comes to everyone.” He reached into his coat, and pulled out a package, a white flower. He dropped it at the headstone of “Anya Nichola”. He was gone almost as soon as it hit the freshly turned earth.
Maria stared at it, laying there. Innocent, but not, fresh and white and green, and useless. Soon to be withered to a dry stalk. A breeze blew by, and it had no time to wait for Maria to move, it just kept on and on. The petals stirred, but they weren’t alive, not really. The flower would never bloom again, thinking otherwise was a foolish—
Dream.
The play is over, go home.