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The refreshing breeze flew through his pitch-black hair, his eyes slightly squinting in the sun, the horse neighed as he clenched his fingers around the reins.
He was here.
He swung his leg over the animal, his boots touching the new, yet familiar, ground, a heavy breath leaving his full lips.
Humans can’t accept the death of a loved one; that’s why we created the afterlife.
But, to receive its comfort, a human needs to know, without a doubt, that that person is dead.
If they don’t, if they haven’t seen its lifeless body, have looked in its blind eyes, have felt its unmoving heart, they will cling to the sickness that hope is.
At every dawn, they will burn their eyes staring at the sun, waiting for the familiar figure to show themselves.
At night, the moon shining on their back, they’ll scratch their throat by calling out their name.
Out of all the possibilities fate could have offered them death wasn’t nearly the worst one but how could they mourn them in this state of uncertainty?
That’s why Sam was here. His heart was destroyed by one summer and two winters of waiting. As the flower had bloomed again he had left his home, he needed to know.
His vision was blurry, a salty tear running on his tanned skin, it reached its lips. It almost looked like they were fighting, not knowing which position they wanted to assume. He cried out; to the spirits? To the gods? To nature or fate itself?
Maybe, most likely, to no one.
Elsa’s family left him alone; he was finally allowed to grieve.
His thick fingers caressed the cortex of her tomb.
Kneeling, he rested his forehead against the tree, his watering eyes closed.
He left a dry kiss on Elsa’s new skin, images of her rosy lips flashing in his mind.
“I’ll join you once the time comes, Lighting with the yellow hair,” he spoke clearly; he stood up, his hand running through his locks.
A small, dark, braid, laid by the plant’s base, securely held together by a yellow leather string.