He would see her standing near the art room window. Never speaking, never moving. Simply staring at something he could never see. Her red hair swept over one shoulder, the color a stark contrast to her gown. She always wore dark colors, and he personally thought they suited her. Her skin was pale and smooth, making her appear like a porcelain doll. She had wide eyes, filled with emotions that he couldn't decipher. They pierced through the room like car headlights through the night.

During passing time, he would see her in the hallways. Others would sweep past without giving her a second glance, but he did. He would always pause, looking deep into her eyes.

She would never respond. She simply stared back, and sometimes he thought he saw a flicker of recognition pass over her face. As quickly as it would come it would be gone, as if it never had been. And the boy would turn away, focusing on placing one foot in front of the other.

She always found a way to sneak into his thoughts. A crimson leaf would instantly be connected to a lock of her hair. A black pair of heels spotted in a shop window would look beautiful on her feet. A pale shade of gloss that would look flawless on her lips.

Whenever he decided to draw, she would rise to the forefront of his mind. A sketch that began as a long, unending road ended with a girl sitting on the curb. The only splash of color in the picture would be the crimson of her hair.

His parents sometimes found his sketches. They would look at it, nodding, and then freeze. Hands moving as though through molasses, they would place the picture down. Avoiding eye contact, they would walk away.

He learned to hide his drawings.

It was Saturday and he was home from school. The morning light shown bright and airy through the windows. Subconsciously, he changed into a crisp white shirt with dark pants.

The dark pants were not coincidental.

Sweeping his hair back with a comb, he walked slowly down the flight of stairs.

Although it was silent in the kitchen, he could feel his parent's presence inside. He opened the door without speaking a word to them. They never cared where he went.

When was the last time his parents exchanged words with him? He couldn't remember.

For the first few moments it was silent; but as he listened, Nature began whispering to him. Bird call miles away reached his ears. Trees rustled their leaves in his passing. A car sprayed up gravel that pelted his shins. Whispers of wind dashed across his cheek.

Lyrics from a song lept to his mind, but he couldn't place it to a song.

They say the wind is everyone that you've ever loved. . .

He hadn't realized he'd started walking until he reached the end of the driveway. Without a moments hesitation, he turned left and began to follow the road on a slight incline.

. . . grazing their lips upon your cheeks.

Feet slapping the pavement, he added into the chorus that surrounded him. He kept his eyes down, head lowered. It was safer that way. For a single moment, a whiff of burnt rubber caught in his nostrils, but it quickly passed.

The pavement eventually turned to thick grass, and his pace slowed as he neared the entrance.

He moved without thinking, sweeping past obstacles with ease. This had been a path quite traveled by him.

His feet eventually stopped moving, and he knew that he had arrived. He knelt, and felt twigs poking into his knees like shattered glass. Eyes down, he breathed in harmony with Nature. He forced words past his throat, knowing they needed to be said.

"It's funny," he said, not a lick of humor in his voice. He felt the tremors in his tone, but did nothing to calm them. "How the driver always survives when the passenger is the innocent."

No one responded. Not that he expected anyone to. His eyes stayed fixed to the stems of flowers long since wilted that litter the ground before him.

"You've made your point." His throat closed, and he coughed, attempting to clear it. "Not a drop has passed my lips, nor will it ever again." He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, the copper taste coated his tongue. "Do you truly believe I will ever forget you? Could ever forget my first love?"

He raised his eyes to the grave before him. He read the inscription, even though he knew it by heart.

Rosalee Markom. Loving daughter . June 7, 1997 – January 1, 2016. Forever in our hearts.

"Please," he said, and felt liquid running down his face. "Let me move on." He lifted his eyes to where he knew she would be, and their eyes met. She stood just behind her grave, red hair still despite the breeze. "Please."

She simply stared at him, eyes unblinking.