In this late Autumn, the weather has been as predictable as its last, the rustling autumn leaves hurl around me in a wind tornado, the crisp winter air filling my lungs and chapping for lips. The smell of a nearby crackling fire wafts through the cemetery. The cemetery is isolated apart from us council workers, the whistling wind imitates the droning of ghosts resurrecting from the earth. The trees sway melodically in the wind and through the early morning fog approaches a man delivering an envelope to be placed in the grave of our latest burial. Christie drops the envelope onto the coffin. It lies crooked on the polished lid. Someone straightens it with the blade of a shovel. It looks better straight. I wonder what the letter says. I wonder why it has been brought now. I get the feeling it has arrived too late. Before back filling the grave the others pause for tea break, before trailing behind them, to the back of James ute, where we left our thermos’, I contemplate opening the letter. I reach down into the ground and grasp the letter in my frosty hands, the envelope, still warm from the mysterious man’s hands. I begin to unfold the letter when the screeching of crickets comes to holt….