Every March, Blake would ride back to his hometown to pay respects to the sibling he had lost. He would stand over their grave and set down a bouquet of flowers, then say a few words before heading off. It seemed like such a simple gesture, but it was ritual.
″Maybe if I had spent more time with you when we lived together, I would have had more to say. Even still, visiting you is the best I can offer,″ Blake muttered. Before he could turn around and head off, he felt a hand on his shoulder and all he could muster was to remain standing where he was.
″Funny how there's a gravestone despite there not being a body beneath it.″
Those words brought shock; true, Blake's sibling was considered missing, but after enough years, everyone had assumed them to be dead and had made a makeshift grave. Common enough knowledge between the family, but Blake couldn't shake that this person knew something and could have had ties to his lost family member's disappearance.
Blake turned back and saw a bearded man with missing teeth and black church attire, along with a black top hat. Blake yanked the old man's hand off of his shoulder and took a step back.
″Excuse me. What did you say?″
The old man stretched out his hands and spread a smile across his face, to which man wrinkles and creases were apparent.
″I said, 'if you could go back and change things, would you?'″
Blake gave a sigh of relief and shook his head. Smiling, he replied:
″I used to have such a wish, but no, I believe whatever actions I made, they would have still made the same decision. Maybe if I were wiser, I would have gone with them, but something tells me if I had the ability to go back, I wouldn't be any wiser.″
″Good answer,″ replied the old man, then disappeared. Blake was left questioning the interaction. He was sure he hadn't taken his eyes off the old man, the one standing right next to him, yet the old man was nowhere to be seen, as if he had never been there.
Blake looked at the sky and saw the orange glow.
Blake wondered how long he had been standing at his sibling's grave. How a small ritual can turn day to night in the blink of an eye. Blake took a glance down at the gravestone and sighed.
″Apologies, but I'm going to have to leave you.″
He ran back to his car as the rain came crashing down. No umbrella or anything to shield him from its unforgiving downpour. Before he could leave the cemetery and reach his car, he found himself instead in a forest. The trees above granted him a protection that being out in the open would not have, yet now he was in total darkness and what more, there was a howling throughout.
Blake did all he could to find his way, but there was no way to find. All these years of going to the grave and never encountering anything so strange. Yet that day, in that March, it was all at once.
Howls grew louder, in all directions. Some low, some high. It seemed to belong to the same voice, but the voice in question was unidentifiable. Neither the wind nor the sound of a wolf.
Blake paced and feared for the worst, yet nothing came. The howling stopped. That should have eased any tension, but Blake wondered if that meant the creature was near. At the moment, the only course of action, whether illogical or irrational, that was taken was that of a brisk walk through those woods. The branches, pine needles, and thorns cut into his arms and legs, but he pressed on, not wanting to be caught by whatever made those sounds.
He kept running and when he looked back, even though he knew he wouldn't be able to see a thing, he was in his car. The lights were on. He was driving down the road in the middle of the day after visiting his sibling's grave. There was no explanation, though Blake tried to rummage through scenarios, even though none seemed to fit. He told himself what he really needed was to visit a diner, order pancakes and some coffee. Lots of it.
Time would catch up to him. When he was at the diner, he noticed owls swarmed just outside, covering a couple of the windows. It looked like they were all looking at him, their gaze fixed with furor. When the waitress walked over, asked Blake his order, he didn't remember what he told her. All he knew is that he ordered something and she walked off, leaving him to his thoughts.
In the middle of March, the weather can go one of two ways: freezing cold or a summer warmth. Inside the diner was another story, as Blake felt a chill run through, yet beads of sweat also dripped from that wrinkled forehead of his. He wiped it off with a napkin and was astonished to find traces of blood on the napkin. Drops landed in his cup of coffee, which he didn't remember receiving. He took a sip.
″There was still time. Still time for me to turn my head in any direction and find out I'm still in those woods and a great beast has me pinned down. Or I'm still standing at that grave, wondering why I haven't moved. Here I am right now in what ought to be an eternity of being several places and unable to grasp any of them,″ he mumbled, his hands shaking. He attributed the shaking to hunger. Sure enough, the waitress returned with a plate.
″It's almost spring, isn't it?″ He asked.
She nodded her head. Tears ran down both strangers' cheeks.
