The detective had long given up on religion. He realised that in the end, it was the human touch that would console people in their time of need.

He held her hand, touched it, picked it up. She didn't resist, she was too weak. She had nothing left in her, and he knew that. He didn't say a word, she didn't want to hear his condolences again. She wanted him back, and he knew that there was no coming back for her husband.
She had only heard his name in passing, it was far off in her mind. He knew hers easily, but dared not let it leave his lips. He handed her a tissue and she pushed it to her eye. It was when she took it off her skin that he kissed her, and it was when she felt his lips on hers that she let him.

He had smiled in the morning when he had found that he would be telling the new widow of her husband's fate. They were always predictable, always wanted the same thing. A human touch could console anything, and she wouldn't tell anyone in the morning.