It had drizzled in the early morning, and so a light mist now covered the ground. Little beads of dew adorned the blades of grass that sat in a field of stone. It was good November weather, a sign that there would be much precipitation but that it wouldn’t snow until at least early December. It was very pretty to see; the sun would reflect off of the dew beads and the whole field would look like it was covered in liquid glass.

In another way, the field was a fitting ground for spirits to wander. When the sun dipped at just the right angle, the mist looked more like a thick and dense fog, and one might have thought that this was a continuation of Halloween weather. If the mind was bored and the eye perceptive enough, the mist would seem to form into a ghostly apparition. The gleam from the sun would provide a poltergeist’s glow. It would be immaterial but it would still look at least slightly terrifying.

But the mind had a habit—it was a good habit—of rejecting such outlandish thoughts when in the comforting company of peers. One would not need to fear what lay beyond if one was surrounded by those he’d call at the furthest, allies, and at the closest, friends.

All that this dew did was wet his shoes and the ends of his pants. And the sun, while bright and glaring, was warm and did not blind him at all. He reveled in its entirety.

He crouched down at the face of one of the stones, his cane by him on the ground. The stone was smooth, but had some inscriptions on it that he knew by heart. There was a light rustling as the wind blew past, and the longer blades of grass wiggled and tickled his ankles.

Beside him, on his left and right respectively, were a young boy and a somewhat older-looking girl. The boy was smiling, while the girl looked on. None said a word. The girl found it in herself to place a hand on his shoulder. She squeezed gently.

There was a cat nearby. Coated in orange, it approached the girl and rubbed up against her leg. Then it sat down on its haunches next to her and looked at the stone before them.

He reached into his yellow jacket and took out a golden notebook. It was worn around the edges. The pages were old and some curled at the corners. A blue pen was tucked in the front pocket. It had several indentations, signs of being bitten at the cap several times over the years.

And there, sitting on that stone, cross-legged, visible only to him, was a ruby-haired young woman, who was just as happy to see him.

On his face was the warmest smile he had ever had. He opened to one of the latest entries. At the very top read Day Sixty-Two. “Ruby,” he said, “have I got a story for you.”

Author's Notes:

Final Thoughts