It was spring when Jack died.
A small coffin lowered down, funeral rites to a deity he no longer believed in. Hushed murmurs and pats on the arm. But they weren't really there. No one was.
It was summer when the look in Sara's eyes changed from shock to accusation -- he died a second time. Slow and dull, this death. Or maybe it was something like drowning, only he didn't try to gasp for air.
This time it hurt less.
It was fall when two uniformed men barged in, promising no return.
The third time would hurt least of all.
