I got there by cab. A breeze was taking a visit, making tree leaves rustle. It was a bleak, cold wind, like fine sour wine, searching the marrow and bringing no bloom to the cheek. I was lucky I wore my black scarf. I checked my phone again. This was the address.

Zachary's gravestone was covered with moss. I brushed a little aside.

1981-2004.

2004.

The same year we parted.

I held back my tears. If I brushed aside the moss that covered his name I think I might have cried myself to unconsciousness. My guitarist.

He was no one's now.