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As the cold winds of the coming winter blew the last of the oak leaves from their desparate grasp to the cemetary grounds...a figure, wrapped warmly in his trench coat, made his way to the marked grave-site. Reading the words aloud, he nearly could not finish as his throat constricted and made it difficult to keep his composure.
"Alas, Lady in Pink...your end has caught up with you, and here you are. Such a tragic loss for my world. What happened? Who has laid the killing blow? Who wounded you to the heart?"
The question was rhetorical. He knew the dead were not inclined to converse with the living, unless a specialist priest was summond to force the spirit to talk.
From his coat, Larry produced a single pink rose, and tossed it upon the grave. Turning from the grave, he looked West, where the sun was riding low in the horizon. Another half hour, and darkness will take the land.
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