“Have a seat,” she said, looking away, half afraid.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he said, sitting on the bench.
“I’m not sure why you came.”
The silence grew like the gray shroud covering the lake. Immense and bleak.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he said.
“I don’t believe it. Where does forgiveness come from? I can’t find it in me.”
“Not from you. Not from me.”
He laid an Easter lily on her lap.
“Visit his grave with me?”
A breeze sprang up, clean and strong, and she caught at the white lily.
“Don’t mind if I do,” she said.