She stared at the sun, willing it to blind her. Shapes flittered across her eyes, dancing and mocking.

The sun wasn't bright enough. Nothing is. The day stood cold and grey, fog seeping through the ground, water in the air shining like jewels when illuminated.

Old cypress trees stretched from the water, their crooked limbs a lattice work in the sky. Twisting sculptures. Dusty, wet, the scenery sang a funeral song for her ears only.

She spat, how unladylike, and smiled. Sometimes the rawness brought a smile to her lips as she closed herself off. Triumphant. Defiant. An occult circle of protection, made of will and bitter irony.

The cypress limbs reached for her, twisting down in the wind. She was afraid of them, afraid of being pulled down into the swamp. The bog, mist and funeral lights. All the souls trapped there, drowned in the thickness. All souls. His soul.