Rex moved. His footsteps were ghostly quiet as he carved a path through the forest of bowed heads and weeping shoulders.
He didn't ask permission to enter her space, nor did he announce his approach. He simply navigated the minefield of grief until he reached her side.
When he came to a stop, his tall, broad-shouldered frame cast a long, protective shadow over her slight, trembling form. He didn't reach out to touch her.
He didn't offer the empty, hollow comfort of a platitude. He simply stood there, a silent, solid pillar of granite in the center of her collapsing world.
For a long time, the only sound was the distant, wet sniffle of a mourner and the wind rustling through the cemetery trees.
"The children," she whispered.
Her voice was hoarse, scraped raw by days of unspoken screams. She didn't turn to look at him; she couldn't.
"The ones caught in the field."
"The ones who... who stopped growing."
