Her hands are in the grave. He registers it somewhere, can’t see what she’s doing and is beyond caring.

The images make sense, finally. Past colour fades into the reality of now, and he remembers. Even as she turns, he can see it. It plays out in front of his eyes as though it were yesterday, as though nothing has happened since. But he doesn’t want to believe it. It can’t be true. Things like this don’t happen, and he refuses to wrap his head around it, even as the truth comes sharply into focus, as if someone has adjusted a camera lens to bring the past front and centre.