It was cold that day, just like the day she died.
Lysander stood out over her grave, remembering how quickly she'd slipped away from them. Cancer did that. Took people in a flash, without regard to life or love. Without regard to family, friends, dreams, hopes, or prayers. It just took. All it ever did. And it took her from him, from everyone that she had mattered to, and he hated that more than he hated anything else in his entire life.
A lit cigarette was clamped between his lips, the tip burning away in the autumn air, sending a choking haze aloft on the breeze. With all the dried, dead leaves around, the cemetery could easily turn into a tinderbox with one spark, but Lysander honestly couldn't bring himself to worry about something so trivial. He took a long drag from the smoking stick of tar and chemicals, his gaze dark and pensive.
Memories surged in his head, unfettered by his hate or his pain. Frost slick windows, cold wind rattling against them, the sterile white and gray of t