West of Paradise, Galatia
“Now what?” Gideon asks weakly.
Sylvia looks up to him with red eyes that had long since run out of tears. She shrugs.
Between Gideon and Sylvia is the freshly filled grave where Meghan’s body lay. The rich smell of earth fills the air and is mingled with that of sweat. The sun bears down on Gideon and Sylvia with an impassive watchful gaze and Gideon notes that the skin on the back of his neck is beginning to burn under the direct light.
“I guess we could say a few words,” Gideon answers his own question with a feeling of dread. Everything that had happened over the past hour or so weighted down on him so heavily that he felt incapable of moving or thinking. In many ways, he felt like an engine that hadn’t had its oil changed in many years and was now seized and full of the thickest grime known to man. Grime so thick that it prevented the engine from performing its duty until it was cleared out.
“No,” Sylvia chokes as she shakes her head.
“Then what do we do?” Gideon whimpers as he lays on his side to watch the grave. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt like it was his duty to watch it.
“Just sit here,” Sylvia answers with another shrug.
As Gideon lays beside the grave, he feels a tear snake its way from the corner of his eye to his temple. There, it hangs precariously for a few short moments before the constant thud of his heartbeat shakes it loose. Just like Meghan’s life, this tear’s future is immediately ended, and it becomes part of the ground.