There was a furrow near the lake, a rift in the ground created by the roots of the trees, and that was where she’d died.
He can remember her hair was auburn – she had told him auburn, he had thought it brown – and later he’ll think he can remember the smells of fern and sage. Her eyes were open.
He had been sitting at her feet. He had reached over her body to cradle her hands and then he’d crossed her hands across her belly. She wore a white dress. The dress went down past her knees. Red patterns on it. Shapes. Nothing particular. Designs then. The dress had thin straps, worn over thin shoulders, a thin neck, her pierced ears had no earrings.
Then he had let her go. His left hand had left her right hand. He breathed. The air felt sick. The breath was shallow.
The world turned, moved and moved on and eventually he stood, and though he couldn’t help it and nor did he desire it he turned and moved on too.
The Compendium 