Storm in A Graveyard

A storm growled eagerly on the horizon as she passed through the iron gates. The wind could have been the voices of the dead, and she pulled her coat tighter around her. Headstones wove in drunken lines, leading inexorably towards the one person she’d sworn she’d never see again. The storm reached the bounds of its patience and broke, fat drops pelting down like bullets. The vibrant red of her mother’s dress ahead seemed even more garishly out of place.

The storm changed the tone of the wind:...