The man walks into the elevator, his hair sticking up in the back, disheveled yet put together. He tries to plaster it down, but all is futile, and he retires from the lost cause. He pushes the lobby button and it illuminates as he waits for the descent. It pauses after clearing one floor, and the violator makes her entrance.

            It is a woman, no older than 30, with espresso-hair and dilating eyes. She lets her side bangs hide her pale complexion and shields her eyes from the man’s glance. He signals towards the buttons, questioning if the lobby was indeed her intended destination. She nods silently, keeping to herself, looking straight ahead.

            The rest of the journey down is silent and the man starts to notice what the woman is carrying. At first glance it looks like an arabesque vase, one to contain blossoming flowers. It’s pretty craftmanship is deceiving, however, because at a closer look, the man notices that it looks like an urn, carrying rather withering flowers if that. Her chipped nails tap against the object, filling the empty space. His eyes don’t fray away, glued to the enigmatic object that captivates all of his undivided attention.

            Perhaps it was her father or mother, the man assumes, although he does not pry, knowing his boundaries and limits. The woman appears indifferent, even cruel, despite the sorrowful circumstances. She checks her wrist several times, glancing at the time imbedded in the ice, colder than her front. The man shifts his position to hug the opposite wall even closer. The woman doesn’t appear to notice.

            The door opens and the woman exists first, treading across the marble floor with purpose. The man cautiously proceeds behind, following her steps. She exits the apartment building, but instead of entering her car, she proceeds to a path enclosed by the façade of overgrown trees. The man trails closely behind. She crouches down near the earth, grabbing some handfuls of soil, and places it inside of the vessel.

            Why would she put the dirt in the urn where a family member’s ashes are supposed to live? But the man doesn’t dare to share his questions, buzzing within his head. He simply just watches the procession, from afar, hiding behind the safety of a tree which conceals his identity.

            The woman then exits from her hiding spot and makes the short journey to the lake where a crowd of people dressed in black were bow their heads. They all embrace her with sad smiles, talking in hushed tones. They all watch as she tosses the contents of the urn into the murky water. Apparently, nobody notices that the ashes were indeed dark patches of soil, clotted together like the veins in the body.

            They all pat her arms as if she’s some hero, a brace soul who has just climbed a mountain. The man leaves puzzled, but not wanting to invade the mutinous woman’s ceremony. He goes about his business, his day-job, lunch, but soon returns to his apartment. He presses the button and is startled to see the woman he followed beforehand already in the elevator.

            It is silent, and the woman cradles the now-empty urn, once more tapping her molten-painted fingernails against it. Click. Click. Suddenly, the man can’t take it no more. He has to say something. Instead of confronting her, he simply asks her if she is okay, avoiding confrontation. 

            She nods. “It hurts to let go, but sometimes it hurts to hold on.”

            The elevator door opens and she finds her way to her apartment. She places the vase on the counter and turns her attention to the mantle, where a much simpler urn rests. Beneath the sealed lid, the true ashes of the deceased are contained, next to her grandfather clock. That way, she can keep an eye on it, and watch the minutes click by, until it is her time.