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A F T E R
The cool Birmingham wind bit at his cheeks, turning them a deep red as John walked through the graveyard. The land was exposed, higher up compared to Small Heath and without the smog and dirt that clouded the air. His hands dug deep in his coat pockets, bare of any flowers- he didn't need to insult her any more than life already had.
The grave stood at the highest point of the yard, soaking the most sun on the hottest of days and taking the battering of the wind and the rain on the stormiest. The outlet of two extreme: John knew she would have liked it. It was secluded from the other graves too, and the whole area was void of human life, as it always was at such an early hour on a Wednesday morning. It was the only time he could get away, reminders of the past months building, always leading him back to the same place.
He finally stopped in front of the grave, staring blankly at the headstone. Already it was worn, looking as if it had been standing for years thanks to the changeable, English weather. It was not ornate or expensive or self-important, but rather plain and pathetic. There was only one line carved into the dull, grey stone, which already stood at an angle. Only one line that described the woman. John thought it was only half perfect because by name alone she was remarkable.
For one moment only, John Shelby let himself be vulnerable. He leaned down to the head stone and touched his fingers against the carvings, feeling the rough lines of the name against his frost-bitten skin.
ɪɴ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀʏ ᴏғ ANASTASIYA PETROVNA
There was an added slowness to her walk as she stepped up the stones of the slight hill, working against the heaviness of her arm that hung in a bandage that wrapped around her shoulder. Her body was cloaked in the same, foreign fur that had become akin to a war uniform during her time in Birmingham, paired with the matching twist of crimson lips. A deadly combination.
John tensed as the footsteps slowly met his ears. The dark, morning sky loomed before him, suffocating with the thickness of the fog that lurked against the crisp grass. He knew her by the sound of her steps alone: on ominous sort of clicking, purposeful and precise, the sound of her thin-figured dress brushing against her legs not far behind.
John Shelby turned, letting his eyes settled uncomfortably on the approaching woman, watching her with a held breath until she came to stand beside him, staring down at the grave, a bouquet of white lilies resting in her hands. He blinked quickly as she placed them against the headstone, blocking out the surname.
