She touched the little box in her pocket and smiled… a smile so slight it barely measured; only a slight curl of her lip and a soft little blemish at the corner of her eye gave it away. For a second she hesitated and lent against the old iron railings, steadying her heart. She watched as the late autumn sun cast a river of shadows over the pathway and the failing light of day gave a melancholy dance across the flag stones.
Blending with the shadows, she moved back a touch, out of view. They wouldn’t see. She watched them all, followed their hands dust a tear and their heads bow down. She listened to the whispers and caught them floating in the air. She heard the sadness and the grief they all shared. She put her hand back against her pocket checking the little box was still there. A heavy hearted sigh escaped from her mouth. Nobody heard.
She waited for the last of the mourners to enter the church and heard the heavy oak doors lock from the inside. She moved from the shadows and followed the path out front. Her legs were awkward and her body unsure, but still she went on. She stopped at the door, slowly raising her hand and teasing her fingers over the delicate wooden carvings.
He had loved her once, or so the story goes. So she walked away slowly and left them to grieve. Her tale was her own and they need never know. She touched the little box in her pocket and smiled. He’d given her the locket, in bed that last time. He said he would be back when he told his wife he was leaving. He never arrived, just the distant sound of sirens that echoed in the wind…………………