“I’m headed to Belgium,” he said quietly from where he stood, too-blue eyes cast down.
Only silence met him, as it always had, when he tried to explain himself.
“At least three months. It’s getting so I’m sure they’re testing me,” he murmured wryly.
The wind touseled black hair that attempted to lay against his neck and cheeks in tangled waves, and sent a dull chill to creep along the inside of his bones.
“Listen,” he said, lifting his eyes to let show the naked grief and horror that held sway there. “It’s just that these things have to be done. No one else will do them,” he explained, all the fire and fury in him icing into words that slipped quieter and quieter.
“It’s never enough, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t need doing,” he said, not rashly, not defensively, but almost defeatedly.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, fingers tracing the shape of a name and two dates that forever scarred the pristine surface of polished granite.