For a long moment, he said nothing apart from gazing at that picture. His dark eyes traced every delicate line of her etched portrait, drinking in her gentle smile, a smile he had almost forgotten.
Slowly, he sank down onto the small stone bench before the grave. His fingers brushed against the cool marble as memories rose, unbidden, bitter and sweet.
'She always treated me warmly… even though I never gave her a reason to.'
He saw her again, standing by the kitchen window in the dim glow of early dawn, wearing a simple cotton apron over her silk nightdress, hair loosely tied back.
He could almost smell the faint fragrance of warm congee and ginger wafting from the pot as she carefully set the table for him before he left for the office.
He remembered coming home late, well past midnight, loosened tie hanging around his neck, shoulders heavy with exhaustion.
