The rain began to come down softly at first, as I ran out of the cemetary, and down the sidewalk, my feet tapping along to the gentle pitter-patter of raindrops. I didn’t want to wait for a bus in the storm, so despite my dislike for being completely drenched, I made a run for home.

My skirt drooped and clung to my knees and my stockings had a tear by the time I collapsed on my porch. I silently chastised myself for not carrying an umbrella, but promised myself that I would return to my quest once the storm subsided. I stood and turned to go inside, but stopped, on the porch was a bunch of daisies tied with a blue ribbon. I stooped down to pick them up and underneath was a note.

It was the same, undeniable handwriting from the matchbook.

I see you every Sunday. How is it that you have never seen me, mourning not even a few feet away? Forgive me for being forward, but do you feel alone as well?

It wasn’t signed.

I looked down the street, behind me, but all was silence.