When she came home from the funeral she found them sitting by the fireplace, warming their blueish grey hands as if warmth would reach them in death. For all she knew they could feel but something about the almost robotic motions they made suggested this was all an act, a way to self-comfort, rather than necessity.
She didn't say a word, nor did they. What could she even say to the children she'd only just buried that she hadn't already said at their dying bedside or their funeral? What comfort could she offer them other than the cold embrace of the graves she spent so long picking, making sure there would be flowers to soothe their souls and plenty of birds to sing them to sleep.
They say that anger is grief trying to rationalise itself and when she managed to make it to the kitchen, she realised she'd been grinding her teeth and trembling the whole time. How dare they come back after all she'd done to ensure they'd have peace. How dare they rob her of her time to mourn.
How dare they how dare they how dare they how dare they how dare they how dare they
As she snapped on her heel, storming towards the living room and the fireplace they'd been huddled around all she saw was a single bloodstained glove and a few small, snowy footprints leading back outside. Her breath came in staggered gasps as she tried to make it all make sense.
In the end she settled for tossing the glove on the fireplace and left for the graveyard, knife back in hand.
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