The sky was gray overhead, the thin clouds too weak to menace the crowds Frank imagined elsewhere inside. They weren't here, not in this place. "Another beautiful winter in California, eh, Margie?" He twisted the rings on his left hand, the two fused together, his and hers. 'Stop, would you? It makes me nervous when you fidget with that,' Margie used to tease him. He smiled wanly at the stone as he ran his index finger along the etching. The hour was growing late.

"Anyway. I came here to tell you I might have to sell our home. Those goddam buncha thieves and scoundrels," Rizzo growls. "...I'm sorry, Margie, I know you don't like me cursing, it's just..." A sigh, a small sigh, from our elderly Atlas to express the indignation he feels, is not enough under this weight. "I spent my life catching small-time crooks and murderers while an entire industry's shady practices go unchecked, a swarm of four-eyed locusts bearing down on the land with notices and red tape and laying waste to our great land, and instead of rounding up the culprits for a good ol-fashioned lynching, the government tells the people to bend over, this will only hurt a bit, we gotta make sure no fatcat has to light his cigar with anything less than hundred dollar bills made of fine egyptian linen and chinese silks-" Frank's impromptu manifesto is interrupted by a coughing fit, and thank goodness for that. "I just mean, what's the point?"

Frank waits longer than he'd confess for an answer, and when the stone provides none, and the rings provide none, and the gray sky overhead provides none, he turns up his collar against the sudden chill and begins walking back...

'Hope.'

The old widower whips around to see his wife standing before him, smiling at him, embracing him...

'Hope, Frank.'

His voice is caught, his knees go weak, buckle underneath him, and the old man falls gently backwards onto the grass of the graveyard, like some graceful dance...

The next thing Frank sees are the puckered lips of what appears to be a small, bald goblin, but on further examination is revealed to be the funeral director. He reacts instinctually, violently, pushing the man off. "GET OFF ME, I DON'T NEED RESUSCITATIN!" He gets himself to his feet, despite his knees' protestations while the funeral director indignantly tries to explain how he was attempting to save Rizzo's life. Frank helps the man up, not listening to a word. He looks back at Marge's grave for a long moment. "I don't need resuscitatin'," he chuckles. He checks his holster, then his pocket, finds both still heavy with the weight of the world, and smiles in satisfaction.