She had put up a gravestone, so he thought he should visit again, perhaps for the last time. Arkham did not much like dwelling on things that couldn't be changed, but it happened all too often regardless. Things changed, people changed, people died, relationships died. And things kept changing. He liked closure, but many things in life left no closure. This would probably be one of them, but he had to make due with what he had. He had but a single memory to live on, and that would just have to be enough.
The forest was white like the city; the snow took away many differences, and he wasn't sure where he felt more at home. Perhaps neither. They were both distant and cold, unfeeling and quiet. The trail of his cloak dragged in his wake, but his hood had been pulled back by the wind. The minty scent was ever-fading, and he wasn't sure that he cared to change that anymore. There was no one to hide from anymore, but perhaps he was still a little bit ashamed of where his blood had come from. And maybe he was still a little bit afraid of it. it was snowing again. By the time he started back, his footsteps might already be covered.