Whispers.

No one in the village remembers when Jo’s wife died, though everyone knows it wasn’t yesterday.

But Jo remembers.

Three years, four months, two days.

And a couple of hours.

It seems like yesterday that she was still holding his hand.

He sits in the village square most days, staring into the past. Avoiding the future.

Unaware of the present.

Some days he sits in front of the library, some days across from the church.

Today he is next to the tree at the side of the garage.

Three years, four months and two days.

And a couple of hours.

It is the couple of hours that is killing him today.

He feels blue.

Blue on blue.

If you ask him, he will say he is fine; that things are on the up and his daughter is coming to visit.

In truth she doesn’t anymore; she feels the cloud around him getting harder and harder to enter, so she has stopped trying.

Jo is aware of the cloud; he feels its presence but he has been keeping it at bay.

No Jedi mind trick, just strength of will.

There is no purpose in anything he does, but most of the time he pretends there is.

Except today.

He can’t pretend anymore.

So he sits.

And whispers her name.