Feb. 26th, 1901-

Surprisingly, the thing that stood out most about that night was the rain. The evening sky was an intense black, with almost lazy swirls of gray interspersed in it, though it was raining so hard that he could not even chance looking up, lest his eyes be drowned. The raindrops fell heavy and fat, loud against the fabric of his hat as he stood helpless beneath them, the flood coming in such waves that he could feel it slick up his hair beneath it, making cold water inch down his neck and collarbone, grabbing onto every hair in its trails. Impatiently, he wiped it away, the tickling sensation setting his already frayed nerves on edge, the sensation similar to searing a wound to close it.

The Muggle car behind him purred in protest, sound slightly muffled from the downpour, and he forced his feet to keep moving, trying to breathe in time with soggy, squelching footsteps. At least the rain hid the tears of the men around him, the ones who put on airs and played at masculinity, ending up snuffling into their cufflinks. A real man cries when he feels, Harvey thought with a rush, because he understands that the strongest trees are the ones that bend to the wind; repression only makes for regrets and bad habits.The women were sobbing openly, some bitter and some in despair.

Hoisting ‘Leeni a bit further up onto his waist, he nuzzled into her hair to keep her mind off of the storm. She murmured sleepily at him and rubbed her head against his jaw. At the young age of three, storms still scared her enough for her to forget why she had to be here. He only wished he was lucky enough to forget why he had to bury his grandmother.  

She lived a good, long life, it said in her eulogy. She died peacefully, of old age and nothing more, it said. The soggy paper ripped easily in his hands as he sat next to her grave, everyone now long gone, the funeral rites ended, and the graveyard clear on this stormy night. No one knew, then, except his own family, the ones who had taken care of her when she had been diagnosed. A mystery illness, it had been said, whispered amongst doctors and nurses as they bustled around her room like she was already gone. It had been small things first: forgetting to lace up her dress, or where she’d placed her spectacles. Then came memories; the shells from the beach where Harvey had spent every summer as a child made her cry inconsolably and shake her head; the pictures of his grandfather and mother in the yard of the house made her coo at the happy family and inquire after the ‘handsome young man’. It had eventually become her looking confusedly at Eileen, then Harvey, and finally Harvey’s mother, flinching away from them if they touched her, cursing and screaming at them when they spoke. A watery and tired chuckle burst out of him as he patted the dirt. Her stubbornness. To the end, that woman had been stubborn, determined that she would survive despite not knowing anything about anyone from her former life. But as she forgot her life, her body forgot how to function. She died in front of him while glaring at her hand to try and make it move.

Determined.

With a dry sob, he curled in on himself. She knew him, he was sure of it. The day she died, she looked him right in the eye and called him by name, smiled at him warmly. But she did not say goodbye, no. Vaguely aware of the cramping in his stomach and chest, he relaxed into the dirt, trying to catch his breath.