Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.
Someone has to leave first. Eins knows this; he's known it his whole life. It's an old story, far older than him or any of the people around him. There is no other version.
Someone has to leave. Someone has to be left behind.
It's just unfortunate he's the one being left again.
It started with his parents, if they could be called such, and continued with the nuns at the orphanage. It trickled into the games with the children in the neighborhood, to the paper route with the older boys, to trying to catch the last bit of bread before the baker tossed it.
But the worst had been Justine.
Sweet, kind Justine, who'd loved him as though he was her own blood. Who'd loved him and left him to struggle on alone.
Eins knew, he did, that it had been beyond his ability to keep her. To make her stay with him would only have made her sad.
He knows that she didn't leave him because she wanted to. She would have stayed until every last star died before she hurt him. But watching her flicker and burn out slowly had been too much, and the blood made a constellation as he was left again.
The headstones here are weathered, weeds creeping over the inscriptions before he leans down to pull them off. It's been a while since he was here last; there's a curl of guilt in his chest that steals the breath from his lungs as he thinks of why it's been so long.
He leaves the flowers in holders, heads to the next destination on his dwindling list with a heavy heart. He recognizes the dark blonde curls before she turns to hand him the bouquet, and the crinkles at the corners of her eyes as she smiles up at him wrench his heart.
Someone has to leave first. Someone must stay behind to be left.
Eins settles himself beneath the old maple, ignoring the bench they'd had put here years ago. He pulls the bouquet to pieces as he talks, gently threading stems together until he has two neat flower crowns.
He lays one on the head of the white marble angel, runs his fingers down her cheek before he sets the other on his head, closing his eyes as he slides up the plate on the back of his neck. He'd promised he'd watch over her for as long as he could, but he was lonely.
Vittoria and Ainsley find him in the morning, the rising sun making his skin look flushed, makes the dew drops on the flowers in his hair look like glittering stars. He looks peaceful, as serene as the angel beside him, and they both let out quiet sighs as they take his hands.
He's laid six feet down, hands folded over each other, the shine of the ring on his hand bright before the lid closes. Ainsley fusses as they work on the inscription, Vittoria never breaks her stare as they install the new statue. They stand, side by side, as its finished.
Vittoria takes her sister's hand and pulls her back towards the house, glancing back once before they step through the door at the second angel now kneeling at the grave. It looks right, suddenly, as if it was always supposed to be there.
Eins may have left them behind, but he hadn't left them alone. He'd made sure they were set before he took those final steps into the after. He'd struggled so much when they'd laid Victoria to rest, and all these years, he'd watched over her unfailingly.
"You took an awfully long time, Eins."
"Well, they're as bad as you were about laundry and cups of coffee, doctor. Couldn't leave them to be how I'd found you."
"Thank you, for waiting."
"Your hands are as cold as ever."
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