Sometimes misery is the only happiness we can accept.
It was raining. Hard.
That's when he would come, when heavy skies made day nearly as black as night and drove people indoors, leaving him alone and undisturbed among the grave stones. He would sit under the nearest tree, leaning against its rough trunk, and watch the rainwater pour off her marker and run along the cobbled path. As the tree's foliage filled and overflowed, drops plopped heavily onto his head and shoulders, soaking his hair and clothing. The chilled water reminded him of melting snow.
On days the rain lasted long, he was certain he could smell white plum.