The moss was thick, a pillow, a carpet. It coated the ground in plush velvet patches. She curled on one, hugging herself against the chill. He would not look here. He thought she feared death. Death whispered in the cypress. She wondered if her mother had found some peace here.
She reached a hand up to stroke the kitten softness of the moss beneath the stone. Soon it would turn cold, and she would have to choose. Go home. Or face things that might be better, but might be worse. She would stay a bit. Her toes were barely numb.