January. The morning mist covered much of his vision, shrouding the familiar park with semi-transparent cloth, the chill clinging to him like a second skin. Yet he found himself unaffected by the cold and trudged along the beaten path, clutching a bouquet of lilies in one hand.

He knew she adored lilies. It had been one of her weaknesses he remembered with fondness. At the thought, he realized, he had missed her terribly.

The path soon ended. The soft squelching of wet grass now accompanied his every step. And as he peered into the thinning fog he caught sight of a structure blocking his way.

The house looked somewhat inviting. Without any hesitation he let himself pass through its tarnished gates, inhaling the place's musty reek in the process.

"Happy Anniversary." He murmured in greeting when he found her, imagining the smile lighting her face at the view of the lilies. He strained to hear her but instead it was his own voice that welcomed him, echoing from the hollow walls where his eyes couldn't reach. He finally settled beside her upon the cold marble floor, cradling the bouquet in his arms.

Just like how he used to hold her. She who smelt of lilies, so clean and fresh- the way her scent lingered had always amused him. And it's funny when he'd try to wash that aroma off, it always seemed to fill his senses, not intrusive but simply there- a collage of her memory imprinted against his nerves.

Yet, the hand tightened around the lilies as the idea came, that guy dared to taint that purity and innocence he patiently protected. Of course he wouldn't allow that. His fist crushed a bud on impulse, a thread of fragrance meshing with the stagnant air. She would always be his.

Refreshed, he stood and arranged the limp lilies at her feet, right where the darkness pooled together like blood spilt on the floor. He glanced at the marble, which held her body.

January. And he could still feel her blood in his hands like it was yesterday.