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Standing under a bleak sky copious with death, Harry is just another person in a black ensemble of mourning that rivals the white winter scene. Snowdrifts heap over inscribed gravestones, and willow trees weep frigid tears along with everyone else at the street-corner cemetery. It's a sorrowful evening, not even the pastel pink wisps of a brumal sunset being able to lift spirits.
As the coffin is lowered into the ground, its sleek wood collecting flurries from above, the surrounding air grows colder in lamentation.
A departure from life is impossible to prepare for, isn't it?
Harry hangs back from the crowd by a bare maple tree. He wears a long black coat with deep pockets for his hands. To anyone else, he's an intruding spectator, but in actuality, you invited him to be a crutch of support since your parents can't be that right now.
He promised you he would be here, yet the way you've been gazing up at him with indecipherable eyes now and then tells him you didn't quite believe him.
When you had called him out of the blue and relayed the upsetting news about your grandfather's passing, his heart had ached in a way it hadn't ever before. It ached for you, his grief-stricken girl, and also your family, who were always generous throughout the years. In the week since he arrived back in his hometown, he gave you time to deal with the initial grief independently. There was no need to barge into his ex-girlfriend's life and attempt to be your saving grace. If you needed a shoulder to cry on, he'd wait for you to ask and then lend it without a second thought. Your level of comfort with him isn't something to be presumed.
Nonetheless, it's an unfortunate circumstance just to be able to see your face again.
The crowd disperses once the loose dirt is shoveled back into the ground. Crumpled tissues in hands and hushed chatter signify the end of the funeral burial. It didn't feel right for Harry to attend the service, as it was for close family and friends only. Even now, a nagging feeling inside his gut tells him he doesn't belong in such a sensitive area.
He pushes himself off the tree trunk and searches for your familiar figure that has suddenly disappeared. He mentally prepares what he'll say to you and is highly aware that there's no right way to go about condolences. He just needs to be as gentle as possible.
Eventually, you emerge from a huddled group and lock eyes with him again, with a slight smile that mends his aching heart for the time being.
"You look like a spy," you say, your boots crunching in the snow as you walk toward him.
He laughs softly but doesn't say anything. Instead, his empathetic side takes in every part of your face, looking for an emotion to pinpoint so he can comfort you in the most chivalrous way possible. He notices your dissociative eyes with prominent bags under them, your tinted nose from the cold, and your chapped lips that make him yearn to kiss the rawness away.
