The widow's son.

Death, silence, mourning. A feeble match flickered into existence in the sea of perpetual night. The light illuminated a pale, ghostly face. The match found a candle and spread like wildfire. A tall windowless room burst into life. Austere portraits gazed down on the two people standing in the middle of the room; a tall woman dressed in black with wispy strands of white hair that fell on either side of her sallow face and a ginger-haired mad in a black suit who stood behind her. The woman walked softly over to a fresh painting, an imposing man in front of a murky background.

"He is gone, mother." The man sighed.

"I know my son; I just wish I had been able to tell him so much." The woman looked away from the painting. A deathly quiet shrouded them.

Old timber frames in the house creaked in mourning.

"You will miss him." The man said moving to stand next to his mother and look at the painting.

The candle flickered and died. The woman busied herself with relighting it to hide her tears, "Yes, I do."

They stood in silence for a quiet minute "The painting looks like him, like farther."

"Yes," She whispered in a hushed voice "Yes it does look like him."

"Father would have been proud"

"I think he, he would have been if he was still here."

"How long since his death?" The man asked, his eyes fixed on the candle flame.

"Please, do not make me speak of it." She answered looking horrified at the question.

"How long?" He repeated.

"It was only..." She was interrupted by a booming clap of thunder. Outside rain fell in great teardrops and the sky was illuminated by the streaks of light that danced across the sky. Trees tried to stand their ground against the tempestuous wind.

"My, my son. Died, only a week ago." She whispered to the empty room, staring at the painting of her son, in front of a murky background...