On the first cold day of winter, when the breath is foggy in front of his mouth, Vaniah gets up early. He wraps a scarf around his neck, a heavy coat on his back and combat boots on his feet. The heating in the car is at full blast.
He does not weep. The tears seem frozen within him. It is so cold.
He drives slowly, with the care of age, hands heavy on the steering wheel. They are old hands, wrinkled hands, and it is harder now to see the scars hidden in their folds. But at last he reaches his destination.
It is even colder outside.
He walks unerringly to the place he cares about: a gravestone, tall and proud and erected with money he will never stop considering blood money. It is beautiful and elegant and shows all the love held for the dead.
Vaniah runs one hand lightly along the top. There is no dust on it, not yet. But the stone is like ice.
He sits down on the ground in front of it, alone, and unwraps the scarf from his neck. It is still warm from his body heat; he drapes it tenderly around her gravestone as the memory of warmth dissipates.
He does not want her to be cold. Then he leans forward and wraps his arms about it, pretending for one moment that the softness of her favourite scarf is really her. Underneath the stone is hard and coming back to reality is all the harder.
In the cold air, the old man lets go and stands again with all the effort of old age. He knows that the scarf is not enough.
She is still cold.
