Prologue.

The scene was eerily reminiscent of a similar afternoon, almost twenty years previous. One by one, sombre-faced mourners exited the small church, dressed completely in black. The drive to the cemetery was made in silence, with each person staring blankly out of the window at the passing houses, or attempting to comfort a friend or relative. Upon getting out of the cars, everyone looked to the hearse, where the coffin was being carefully lifted onto the shoulders of four men.

He watched the funeral procession enter the cemetery from the backseat of the car. When they were inside the gates only then did he get out and follow, at his own pace. He hadn’t cried, not in the church or during the drive through town. He stopped a little away from the small group, just watching as the priest began to speak.

Many of the people present were remembering a clouded spring afternoon many years before, where the graveyard was silent except for the sound of the priest’s voice and muted sobbing. A tiny baby had begun a shrill cry, held tightly in its father’s arms, and it had been an effort not to stare.

Now, in place of the child was a young man, dressed all in black with tanned skin, platinum blonde hair and sapphire eyes. But this time, there was no one there to hold him, whether he cried or not. A woman looked over her shoulder at him sympathetically but he stonily ignored her, instead watching the coffin as it was lowered into the ground with a terrible finality.

Nobody noticed him leave, in fact he wasn’t missed until they got back to the house on the outskirts of Leeds and people began to realise he hadn’t come back with them.