Kyle Raymond, formerly known as Carson James Beckham, was sitting on a park bench in a graveyard. The sky poured rain on the cemetery, and the newspaper clutched in his hands dripped ink steadily onto the earth at his feet. His eyes, fixed on the black pool, remained motionless as his mind wandered. Why, he thought, would there be a park bench in a graveyard? Logically, he supposed it made sense, but what came to mind when he heard the term “park bench” was an image of mothers reposing on a well-worn seat, exchanging gossip and watching their children clamber over the jungle-gym out of the corners of their eyes. A park bench in a graveyard seemed wrong to him. But he supposed no one else would care. He must have been the only man in the world questioning the existence of a park bench.

The newspaper, which had previously been meant to entertain him until the person he was waiting for arrived, was nearly blank. The rain had washed away the ink from the page, and he crumpled it up in disgust. He had already memorized the front page, anyway, and that was all that mattered. It told of a man that had gotten caught up in the wrong sorts of activities, and people who weren’t too happy about it had reached him before he could cover his tracks. “Stupid,” Kyle muttered. “What type of man throws away a perfect life like that? He had a family. A wife. People he cared about, and that cared about him.” Unfortunately, Kyle knew this all too well. The man’s name had been Carson Beckham. He had faked his death to protect his loved ones from people who had been out to get him. And so, his alias, Kyle Raymond, was born. An unimportant lawyer who just managed to scrape by, and who still dwelled on a life he would never get back. It was stupid, he knew, but it was also the reason why he couldn’t stay away from this particular graveyard on this particular night. Even if he couldn’t talk to her, he had to see her.

He bowed his head for a moment, wrestling his emotions under control, then looked up, drawing in a shaky breath. There she was, walking down a paved path through the headstones, coming this way. She hadn’t seen him. He stood up from the bench, went over to a grave a little ways away, and knelt, like he was in mourning for the man buried under the hard-packed dirt beneath him. The rain would help him tonight; she wouldn’t be able to recognize his face through the downpour.

It took nearly all of his willpower not to stand up and bolt to her. He wanted so bad to go to her, more than he had ever wanted anything in his entire life. For a brief moment, he forgot the consequences. The possibility that he could put her in danger went out of his mind. He no longer considered how a part of her must loathe him for doing what he did to her. For abandoning her. But he wanted so badly to run to her and tell her that everything would be alright, and he’d fix everything. He knew, however, that there wasn’t a way to stay true to his word. And he also knew that a happily-ever-after was something out of a dream, not a scenario to be expected in this instance. So he bowed his head, only one eye trained on her.

She approached one of the many headstones with flowers clutched in her delicate hands. Locks of blonde hair covered her eyes, but he didn’t need to see them to know that they were bloodshot from crying, the crystal irises glowing from the strain. She sat on the grave, facing the headstone. Her shoulders began to shake, and again he resisted the strong urge to rush to her, wrap her in his arms, and comfort her, like he had done countless times before. His fingernails bit red divets into his palms.

She wore a tattered blue blouse, one he remembered well. It was soaked within minutes, sheets of rain causing it to cling to her frail frame. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, crushing the flowers to her. He could hear her sobs now, the sounds so full of grief that he couldn’t help but share her sorrow. A tear pooled in the corner of his eye and slipped down his cheek, a tiny crystalline snake. He brushed it away with a corner of his sleeve. Raindrops flooded in and made false tear streaks down his face, and he couldn’t tell, after a time, how many of them were fake, and how many were real.

After what seemed like an eternity of grief and desolation, she reached out and rested the flowers against the headstone. She slipped a hand into her pocket, and took out some small thing that he couldn’t see from this distance. She placed the item next to the flowers and got to her feet unsteadily. Without bothering to wipe away her tears, she turned her back on the grave and hurried away.

When she was far enough away that she wouldn’t see him, Kyle got up and trudged across the path to the headstone she had just left. When he saw what she had placed there, his breath deserted him. Beside the flowers sat a tiny picture frame, occupied by a photo he thought he would never see again. It showed Kyle with her, his wife, on their wedding night. They were depicted in profile, up at the altar, just about to seal their promise to love and cherish each other until death did them apart. Her blonde hair was pulled up in an elegant bun, her blue eyes bright and shining, like chips of polished sapphire. Her tiny hands were clutched in his, and he was smiling down at her, an expression he had always been told had lit up the room. Presently he felt a flood of the emotions he had been feeling that day: an unbridled joy that she was finally his, and a fierce determination to nurture their relationship so it thrived. The feelings were followed by a consuming bereavement at his failure. If he could have just one trip back in time, he would do it all over again, this time making sure that he didn’t mess up and put her in danger.

Tears flowed freely down his face now, and he didn’t try to stop them. He got to his feet, the miniature picture still in his hand, and looked across the cemetery to where his former wife was climbing into her car to drive home. As he watched her, he remembered this date five years ago. The first anniversary after the wedding was the most magical, in his opinion. It was a celebration that they had made it through a whole year, and love still resided within them, as strong as ever. He remembered taking her arm as they strolled up to the restaurant, remembered that she had worn that exact same blue blouse (new, back then), and remembered how he had kissed her that night, underneath the sparkling waters of the fountain. He knew that if he ran, called out to her, he could make up the anguish he had caused her the last year, and they could relive that magical night.

He looked down at the little photo, and looked at the gravestone, at the name carved into it: CARSON J. BECKHAM. He knew that running after her was the last thing he could do. Not only would he be in serious trouble, but he’d put her in unnecessary danger. No, it was safer to leave Carson James Beckham behind, safer to live on as Kyle Raymond. It was safer for him to be dead.

The tiny photo disappeared into his pocket. He turned his back on his former wife and exited the cemetery, leaving the last of his former life behind.