The wind whips around her face. Her hair suddenly is alive for a brief moment before it falls again, draping onto her pale shoulders like the boughs of a willow. Another gust of wind and her hair once again reaches toward the ashen clouds.
His hand is tight in hers. Tight enough to cause the sinewy tissue on the backs of both of their hands to bulge outward, creating a miniature mountain range. The wind gusts once more, this time brining with it a question
Why?
We talked about this. We both know it’s needed
You didn’t answer my…
I know.
He turns and walks. Past the flickering light. Past the withered tree. He walks down the concrete steps. His footsteps echo through the air, pounding in her chest. Her ribs rattle to the beat and the world seems to stop between footfalls, as if every vibrating molecule on this planet is anticipating what she’s dreading. The wind gusts again. Once more it brings a whisper as a guest
Why?