The cemetery had been a favorite haunt of Theodore's before, and it was still a place he felt drawn to, though he wasn't sure why. He had made the long walk from the village because it was the thing he was supposed to do, the therapy thing. He was growing to hate the therapy thing. It was painful and exhausting, the wind was cold and the snow was deep in places, hiding slippery patches of ice. At least the charm on the bottom of his shoes kept him from sliding around, but the walking stick was surprisingly useful at stabilizing him as well.
He was surprised to see a girl moving around, placing flowers on each snow-laden marker. He watched silently, the breeze blowing his long cloak around him, ruffling his hair. Holding his walking stick under one arm, he pulled his cap down onto his hair and arranged it so it hid the patch over his right eye, but it still blew free anyway, fluttered by the whims of the wind. He leaned against the stone arch, convincing himself he wasn't just catching his breath, and watched.