My chest clenched as I realized that I was looking down at a graveyard.

I sat myself down on the rim of the roof, trying to tear my eyes away from the tombstones.

I looked at my wings; a few of my feathers were already turning gray – that in itself scared me worse than any concept of death.

I drew my precious wings close to my body, cocooning them against my sides.

The boy stopped before a particular gravestone that seemed to have importance to him. I could see tears glistening in the parent’s eyes as he held his child by the hand.

Tentatively, I let myself gently swoop down beside them.

The ground was cool underfoot, but it was laden with images I did not wish to see.

Visions came rushing to me, unbidden – some in this graveyard had died in a war; some peacefully, with people sitting by their bed and holding their hand.

But the one before me held significance.

It was the mother of the child, that I knew well; I understood their grief.

My problem was the name upon the gravestone.