The sun.

It was the first thing I registered. Then the breeze, the grass beneath my fingers, the birds chirping out their same sweet song.

The lap under my head.

I didn't open my eyes. Didn't need to. I knew she was there, and that was enough.

Her fingers stroked gently across my cheeks and nose. Then into my hair.

I peeked out of one eye. Yep. She was just as beautiful as ever. Her blue-dyed hair caught the sunlight, and her steel-grey eyes stared into mine.

"Good afternoon, my darling," she said.

I leaned into her hand. "Good afternoon."

She chuckled, a low sound that made my stomach flutter despite hearing it nearly every day for four years. "Your freckles are one of my favorite things."

"About me or in general?" I asked, closing my eye again.

"Both."

"I'm glad."

Silence passed between us. It was the comfortable kind that didn't need to be filled. Her fingers ran through my hair; I listened to the birds and wind.

Then she pressed a kiss to my forehead. "It's time to go, darling."

I smiled. "Okay."

We got up and packed everything back into the basket. I put it on my arm and offered the other to her. She took it and together we walked home.

That's the thing about regular afternoons. They can shift too quickly.

Clouds gathered, rain began to fall, and lightning followed.

Lana and I found shelter in a tailor's shop.

"Rain's beatin' down out there."

I turned and saw the tailor. He tipped his hat. "You ladies can stay 'til the rain lets up."

Lana inclined her head. "That is very kind of you, my good sir."

"I'll be in the back."

And he left us with that.

Lana took my hand and pressed against my side. "I hope it stops soon."

I frowned. "It's been awfully rainy lately."

Lana sighed. "Unfortunately."

That's the other thing about regular afternoons. They can turn violent too quickly.

Falling rain can become falling blood in a matter of seconds.

The tailor shoved us out of the store. Brought up his gun. Shot.

My vision blurred, blood splattering my face.

Lana fell, her pretty dress flying up. I also fell to my knees beside her. Grabbed her hand.

"Lana. Darling. Look at me," I said, voice wavering.

She smiled, her eyes crinkling. Blood pooled under her, already touching my knees. She rasped a breath. "I love you, darling. . ."

Her eyes slipped closed.

"No!" I shouted. Tears streamed down my face. "Darling, stay with me! Don't leave!"

The blood spread, soaking the knees of my pants. Her eyes remained closed. Her hand went slack. I gripped it tighter.

"Lana. . .No!"

Nothing around me mattered. Only Lana in her pretty summer dress. And that horrendous pool of blood she was laying in.

My breathing was erratic, and my chest hurt. Like someone had squeezed my heart too hard. Metallic filled my mouth and nose and eyes. It was all I could taste and smell.

I screamed. I don't know how long, but I know when I finished, I was shivering, soaked, and my throat was hoarse. I laid next to Lana, still holding her hand. Blood seeped into my clothes and hair.

"Please, come back to me. . ." I whispered. "I know you're still there. Just open your eyes."

Lana didn't move.

A sob tore from my chest, and I curled up. More shivers racked my spine. Screams and sobs alternated.

I looked into the sky. "How could you?!"

No reply but rain in my eyes.

"I hate you! I hope you die! You hear me?! Fucking die!"

No matter how much I screamed and cried, no God answered me.

I continued sobbing, each one hurting more than the last.

The rain started to wash the blood away. But nothing washed away the taste.

Nothing erased the pain.

Kathy had not known grief until Lana. She did everything she could; CPR, calling 999, crying, praying.

None worked. The police came. Cited lack of eyewitnesses. Left.

The tailor's shop stood, still standing, the tailor inside.

A week later, she bought a gun. She sat in the cafe across the street, staring into the shop window, fingering the pistol in the pocket of her jacket. But, she never did it. She got up. Paid for her tea. And went back home. A home without Lana. A bed half-empty.

She told herself she would never love again. She told herself she would never look at a sundress - or even the sun, again, its shining light reminding her too much of Lana. She hid the mirrors. Her freckles looked like bloodstains now.

But she still had the gun.

It was a testament to Kathy's restraint that she didn't shoot the bastard.

Every single day, she walked by that shop. Every day she listened to the murmurs and insults. Every day she saw red behind her lids.

She cried a lot. Screamed even more. She bought meds and went to therapy. None of it helped. All it did was numb.

Often times, she dreamed of those peaceful afternoons, resting her head in Lana's lap.

More often she dreamed of blood and bullets and woke screaming.

She stared at the gun on the table, the light glinting of its metal surface. One pull of that trigger, and she'd have revenge for Lana.

Her hand closed around the cool brass. The gun seemed to come alive in her hand. It thrummed with her pulse.

"I'll do it," she told herself quietly. "Tomorrow."

Kathy woke before dawn. Sleep had become a stranger to her, a visitor who stayed only long enough to show her the worst moments of her life, then fled before she could catch her breath. The gun sat on the table where she’d left it, a small, cold thing, too light for the amount of space it took up in her mind. She sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes. Her throat felt raw again. She couldn’t remember if she’d screamed in her sleep or if she’d cried herself awake.

Maybe both.

The flat was silent. It had been silent for weeks, but today it felt heavier. Kathy stood, walked to the table, and stared down at the gun. The metal reflected the faint morning light, a thin line of brightness across its barrel.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered.

But tomorrow had become today. She reached out, her fingers closing around the grip, feeling the weight. Lana’s laugh echoed in her memory.

Kathy squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m doing this for you,” she murmured.

But even as she said it, something inside her twisted. She backed away from the table and sank onto the couch, pulling her knees to her chest. The room blurred as tears filled her eyes again.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered into the empty air.

The silence didn’t answer for minutes, stretching on like voiceless hours. Then, a knock sounded at the door. Kathy froze. No one visited anymore. No one knew what to say to her, and she didn’t blame them. Another knock. She wiped her face with her sleeve and stood. Her legs felt unsteady as she crossed the room.

When she opened the door, a woman stood before her, older, with silver hair pulled into a neat bun and a raincoat still dripping from the morning drizzle. “Are you Kathy Rowan?” the woman asked.

Kathy nodded slowly.

The woman offered a small, sympathetic smile. “My name is Inspector Hale. I’m reopening your partner’s case. I believe there’s more to what happened that day, and I think you deserve answers.”