His pants were a simple and unassuming matching black. His hair was long, dirty blond, brushing over his shoulders and swaying as he walked.
But his face…
His face was expressionless and cold...
Yet bearing a depth of emotion so profound, it made the kids freeze as if some part of them recognized him.
One of the boys tugged at his friend's sleeve.
"That man… he looks familiar."
The other nodded slowly, though not fully understanding why.
The man didn't glance their way. He didn't even seem to notice them. His steps carried him directly into the cemetery by the roadside, moving with an inevitability.
He passed rows of graves, passed old stones cracked by time, passed flowers wilted by seasons.
Then he stopped.
Right before the tombstone that bore the name:
ANGY VILANDROBADIA.
The world fell silent around him.
Not even the wind dared to rustle the leaves.
