Envelope

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      Ace watched as his mum walked away from himself, Icarus, Brennan and Skylar, quickening ever so slightly. She'd never have gained real ground on them if the twins hadn't got the hint and slowed down, holding Brennan and Skylar back too.

      They watched as Kaelie reached the grave first, kneeling in front of the headstone and fussing with the vase, rearranging the bright flowers that were still full of life. After all, she'd only brought them the day before. But she couldn't stop herself visiting again and again, every day, to sit and talk or cry and scream. But when the kids came with her, she refused to do much more than kneel, and pass on a message.

      Kaelie looked over her shoulder to check her children weren't watching and slid the envelope, enclose in a plastic pouch, inside the vase, replacing the flowers she'd briefly removed. Adding a little extra water from her bottle and a packet of plant food, she replaced the vase on the circle of moisture that stained the slate base that held the headstone. Her eyes lifted and through the blurriness she could see nothing. But she didn't need to see. She had the engraving memorised like nothing before.

Here lies
Jaime Reyes
Husband, father, friend to many.
2004-2054
xxx

      It cut through her, straight to her heart. He'd died five months ago and the only life she could find for herself afterwards had been one still focused on him. And their children. 

      But she still brought the same plastic pouch, the same envelope, the same letter sealed inside, and would do so until she got an answer.


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