Narrow Wind. A short story.

Snow flakes fell on the breath of a late November wind, the sky over head was grey, and the ground folded in a cold white blanket. But that was not what gave the wind its chill. Nor was it the forest of stones that he stood amid, each slab standing in its' row. The wind brushed against the folds of his trench coat, which he pulled no tighter about him and from beneath the shadow of his fedora, the man's blue eyes stared fixedly. Though there were many erect stones in the yard, there was only one that bore any significance more than any other rock. And as the man stared, a tear ran from his eye which he did not even think to remove. He'd stood there for hours, and would stand there yet for hours, because he craved just one minute more.