Written in response to a prompt on tumblr where Mary attempts suicide after Matthew's death.

She finds her exactly where she knew she would be-sitting on their bench. No coat. No hat. No gloves. Something small clasped in her white-knuckled fist.

The wind picks up just as Cora approaches and sits beside her, blowing her own skirts haphazardly as the elements have their fun. The sky is pewter, somehow a fitting color for all that they've endured, yet one Cora wishes would just go away. There's been too much black and gray in their lives over the past year as death's insistent residue lingers, hovering as a transparent film over Downton. Sticky. Heavy. Lethargic and bleak.

"I thought I might find you here."

Mary says nothing in response, choosing to stare into the misty grays rather than to focus on her living mother.

"He's not here, you know."

She hears her daughter sniff beside her and dares a look in her direction, watching as the younger woman's hands tremble even as her spine remains straight.

"Don't you think I know that, Mama? He's buried, covered by dirt and marked by that blasted headstone."

Mary's voice is bleak, void, bearing the same hollow timbre Cora's had borne during the weeks after Sybil's death. She edges closer to her eldest, clasping onto Mary's hand, absorbing the violent shakes her daughter is trying desperately to conceal.

"Matthew's not there, either, Mary. He's upstairs in the nursery, wishing his mother would come and rock him to sleep."

She hears the sharp intake of breath beside her, pausing as fingers open and close around what she now sees is a small but sharp knife.

"That's not Matthew," Mary counters. "It's George."

"Who is a part of Matthew," Cora continues "Sybil is there, too, I see her every time I hold Sybbie. She's so like her mother. It's as if life knew we'd lose them, so it gave us their children to soften the blow."

A lone tear runs down Mary's face, dropping onto her dress before her daughter has time to brush it away.

"They're what we hold on to, Mary. They're the reason we keep going, even when breathing is an effort and living hurts. They're our future."

Cold fingers turn and wrap around her own, and she looks into eyes that have lost more than they should have at her young age, eyes searching for hope when the love of her life has been unceremoniously snatched away.

"I always thought I was stronger than this. But..."

The words flutter on the breeze in time with their skirts, and Cora watches as tendrils of hair than have escaped Mary's up-do billow across her face. Black upon ivory. Life warring with death.

"You're stronger than you realize," Cora returns, gently easing the knife from Mary's grasp as she squeezes her hand and kisses her forehead. "You're a Crawley. You're a Levinson. And you're a mother."

They sit like this as the wind swirls around them, as grays and charcoals dance until a crack in the clouds can be seen. There-just there, the sun peeks out, and Cora breathes in its imagined scent, remembering Sybil, remembering Matthew, remembering the child she lost before she'd been able to give him life. Then Mary stands, staring at a tree that has witnessed more than any human before turning her gaze back towards the house-towards life, towards her son. She nods at her mother, and Cora smiles as she rises to her feet and touches her daughter's shoulder, a show of solidarity against what life has thrown their way. .

"I'm afraid I don't know how to be a mother."

Dark eyes fix upon the nursery window as Cora takes one step closer, feeling the sun on her back as streaks of color dare to show their faces once more.

"Come on then," she returns, sensing Sybil and Matthew nudging them forward. "I'll show you."