Meadowlark Prairie toothaches from kissin' me

She pulled back, letting pools of pale gold fall again to the gravestone before them.

It will help them rest. She says softly, a certainty in her words. Perhaps it is to convince herself.

Sweet sentiments meant little to the dead. A grave would not bring them back, or relieve them of their pain; but it would grant them passage beyond the desolate fields their souls were washed out to. She believed this because she needed to, but in her heart of hearts—

She knew the dead were gone the moment the light faded from their eyes, soul and all, if such a thing ever truly existed in the first place; it was snuffed for good when time ran out. True and utter oblivion. Erasure.

Sweet sentiments were for the living. To distract from that reality. Death was a terrifying thing when the cradle of religion fell away.

Synder had long lost hers, and so she was terrified by it. Enough to lie to herself.

A soft exhale followed, her breath forming in the sharp air. ...I want to go far away from here in the morning. Can we do that? She asks without looking up at him.