With tired eyes, she looked up at the fading sky on which seemed were written words; words which only the birds could read and speak. The dying light, was a half-light shadow, weak and unsubstantial, as vague as certainty.
This day, above all others had been the worst. It had started bleakly, with the slow drizzle of rain and the far off distant sound of police sirens, startling the sleeping bodies from their beds. Strange how the world kept going when inside everything was disintegrating. But, that was after all, what grief was - something, that once having been paraded ceremoniously by a train of black cars, and crowned with funeral wreathes, was internal and invisible to the rest of the world; whose only thought was, 'By the grace of God, thank goodness it was not us.'
No it had been them - and they'd never thought it would be.