Word Count: 495

Amor vincit omnia.

Love conquers all.

What an utter load of s**t that was.

Her house was littered with evidence to the contrary—photographs, albums, and videos packed away and locked in dark closets, not forgotten, but avoided for the sake of escaping the bitter pain of regret. Smiling faces that were later unsmiling; happy, excitable voices that later lost their enthusiasm. Too many memories of tense conversations, passionate arguments, and a child in tears kept Marissa from believing the words that adorned her signet ring.

Then, of course, there was the grave.

Henri LeFay
5 October 1965 – 6 April 2012


Marissa brought no flowers with her this time. She reserved those for special occasions, birthdays and anniversaries and holidays she felt some pitiful need to mark in some way, though Henry had never shown a fondness for flowers in life, so why should he care any more now? He'd never given her flowers. Not once. Not even after a few of her stupid youthful attempts to drop hints that she might like some.

Henry was not the romantic sort, and after a while Marissa had stopped caring.

But that was alright. What were flowers worth in the end? Henry'd given her something far more meaningful.

Marissa sat upon the grass and faced the stone that marked her ex-husband's grave. The cemetery was nearly deserted today, but that was how she preferred it. The grief was fading over time, but still there. She doubted it would go away entirely, though it became easier with the passing months. Most of her visits now passed without the urge to cry. She sat in silence and stared at the grave marker, let herself float on memories of Henry in life, and told herself there was no point in holding onto something that had ended long ago.

And twenty years was a long time. Nearly half her life, though it felt like... like yesterday, at risk of sounding cliché.

But what good did reminiscing do her, except to prove all her bitter thoughts correct?

After a while, she opened her mouth to speak but found she had nothing to say. A part of her wanted to spill her secrets, talk about what had become of her since November, about Chaos and youma and life on other worlds, but it seemed foolish to do so. She'd get no response, naturally, and run the risk of being overheard if anyone should wander into this part of the cemetery. Besides, it'd been so long, she couldn't even decide how Henry might have responded if he'd had the chance.

She was beginning to forget the sound of his voice, the look on his face when they first met, the song he'd crooned to Paris those first few nights at home.

Swallowing thickly, Marissa clutched her signet ring tight in her hand, pressing the oval face into her palm.

“Tell me, Page, what do you know of love?”

Only that it couldn't stop death.