Disclaimer: If I owned these characters there would be no need of fanfiction.

Spanish Dust

His heart wouldn't break over her betrayal. It couldn't; it had already broken long ago.

He glances around the small bedroom they'd shared the last few days of their travels trying to stave off his burgeoning despair. He tries not to think of what she's done. He tries not to see the ghostly visage of his wife's memory walking about the room, checking her hair in the mirror, picking up the negligee he'd bought her off the chair in the corner. But his attempts are for naught as his eyes land on the tactile proof of what he'd sell his soul to banish from reality.

A folded sheet of paper torn from the journal she carried with her wherever she went.

"No," he whispers brokenly, the shards of what used to be his heart crumbled into dust as he openly wept and buried his face in his pillow. The bed shook with the force of his violent sobbing, but his muffled cries went unheard. As always.