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The grave never changed.
Sometimes it was crowned with snow, and sometimes it glistened in the rain, and sometimes it shone in the evening sunlight like polished glass, but it never changed what it was: a reminder to Harvey that his son was never coming back.
It had gotten easier. Before the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Yet To Come had visited him, he hadn't been able to walk through the cemetery gates at all. And now here he was, sitting in the snow next to Charlie's headstone. But that didn't make it easy.
"Hey Charlie," he said softly. "You been missing your old man?"
He could almost hear Charlie's voice whispering back, but maybe it was just the wind in the trees. It was a cold Christmas Eve and the sky above was heavy with snow and the promise of a white Christmas.
He was supposed to be at Linkara's place. The gunslinger's wife had turned up and they were staying for Christmas. He was supposed to sing for them. He'd promised the kid he would. But there was something he had to do first.
Harvey hadn't always been home for Christmas. He'd lost track of the number of times his tours had taken him away over December. In fact, the very last Christmas before Charlie... before it happened, he'd been away from home.
A small dark hotel room. The phone receiver tucked under his chin. Charlie's voice in his ear, asking when he'd be home.
"It's not Christmas without you, Daddy."
"I know, kid. I'll be home as soon as I can."
"You promise?"
"I promise."
And then he'd sung their favourite Christmas song and in that moment, the distant had melted away and he'd been with Charlie, with his wi– ex-wife. With his family. He'd been home.
Even now, he could remember how warm it felt. How loving.
"I'll be back tomorrow," he whispered. "I promise."
He took a deep breath and started to sing.
"I'll be home for Christmas..."