It had been four months since they had stood together at Berthold Hawkeye's grave. Four months since the funeral, four months since Roy had seen her tattoo, four months of studying and not much time for anything else at all. Roy's train was to leave that evening.

It was not clear to either of them who had lead the way back to the graveyard, but it was where they stood.

Afterwards, the conversation would feel very, very old.

("I'm sorry. I should have been there.")

("Don't be. I was the one who never wrote.")

("But what he did to you was vile. I used to look up to him, but I'll never think of him the same.")

("Well. Dying was the only kindness he ever showed me.")

("…Miss Hawkeye…")

("He's gone. I suppose you can call me Riza now.")

("Riza…")

("I did say 'I supposed'. I don't know if I'm ready yet.")

("I can wait.")

("Can you? How long?")

("A long time. I'm a patient man.")

("No, you aren't.")

("I am, for you.")

Riza said nothing. Her hair was dirty. She had a resilient pimple on her forehead that simply refused to leave. Boys never said nice things to her, and Roy was very pretty. The prettiest boys were always the cruelest. She didn't know him that well, though he had acted familiar towards her from the beginning. But Roy leaned over and kissed her sweetly on the cheek. He turned and walked back towards the house.

I am for you.

I am for you.

I am for you.

Perhaps she trusted him. But she did not believe him.

Not yet.