It had been many years since he had thought about that. Maybe he´d never really thought about it. Not properly.

So, why was life like this? Why here? Why now did it hit him so hard? He couldn´t even look at it directly, couldn´t turn around.

The photograph of the flower had been hung in the station probably as an afterthought, something inoffensive, random. It couldn´t possibly have any meaning to anyone. But there he was, with his head in his hand, sobbing.

He hadn´t cried seven years ago at the hospital when the doctors with their too kindly, too understanding faces had given him the final news, he hadn´t cried at the funeral, or visits to the cemetery or the first Christmas without her or any of the, now ironic, birthdays.

But a simple memory of coming home from school one day, one random, meaningless day, and seeing her arranging the flowers in a vase, now struck him in a cruelly poignant way.

And he tried to fight it, but the last train left the station and there was no one else around.