She stumbled again, the wind grasping at her shawl and pulling at her white hair whilst the brambles she had fallen upon ripped open her thick brown tights.
Her veins protruded like wiry blue snakes with the pressure she placed on her hands as she pushed up from the ground.
The curved grey stone felt cold on her palms, and the lettering carved into it rough on her delicate finger tips.
“Never,” she said weakly, and brushed away the fallen leaves and creeping ivy that year after year had fought to take claim of her husband’s gravestone.
“You’ll never be forgotten.”
Arbie Krae 