Your Stone

You stand there, looking down. It's a short, squat stone, smooth on the front but rough on the back and sides. It sits there, taunting you.

It's bold, confident. Inscribed with carefully chiseled letters. She told you everyone presumed you were dead. You understood that. Yet it's different, standing here, seeing your own name staring back up at you.

You had started your day by walking through town, down streets you once knew, but now seem strange and unfamiliar. You had stuck to the shadows, catching a glance of your wife. No. His wife. You were dead, after all. You couldn't blame her for moving on. You could never be mad at her, even before all this happened.

Thomas Alexandre Viltrow
Beloved Husband
We know not why such things happen, but we find peace that he has gone somewhere better.

Your heart twists. It should have said "Beloved Husband and Father. But it didn't, of course. You never got the chance to be a father to their child. Your little girl has grown up with a new father. A father that is not you.

It's ironic, really. For so long, you didn't know why such things had happened either. Now that you do, you thought it would give you some sort of peace. It hasn't. Maybe there is no finding peace after something like this. And you certainly hadn't gone 'somewhere better.' Somewhere different, perhaps, but not better. Nothing could have been better than being by the side of your wife and daughter. But do you have any right? They have built lives for themselves. They are taken care of, and they seem happy. What would your arrival do? You would never want to cause them pain.

The stone sits silently, unhelpful in your silent musings. You kick your own headstone before turning and walking away, silent tears streaming down your cheeks.