A Cold Morning

The sky is a steely grey-blue. Yew trees sway slightly in the cool breeze, their leaves fluttering and dancing. Somewhere far away, the mournful warble of a bird is heard.

Yellow buttercups dulled in the shadowy day shake their head. A pale ivory butterfly rests its dainty feet on the petal of a flower.

A white gravestone with carven words sits patiently. She watches the young man kneeling in front of her, his hands clutching the bouquet of pure white lilies. His silver hair gleams dully. His head is bent and his eyes are closed. He is frozen.

It is a cold morning.

AN: Mi-chan introspection. One of my personal favourites so far.