Grief hangs heavy from the boughs of the twisted tree. Candles flicker in the gathering darkness, small spots of life in a place so steeped in gloom. The very air seems weighted, despondency dripping down unkempt vines into stygian pools. By the tree itself, within reach of the ancient grasping limbs, a silhouette lingers, silent sentinel in the fading light. Candlelight skips across obscured features, highlights a face and chin and nose weathered by sun and hard work, wrinkles born of laughter and life baked into worn skin.
Ashes and dust in this quiet, dull tragedy.
The figure turns away, head bowed, posture stooped, vigil complete.
As the moon rises, the candles flicker, and one by one go out.
