The Monument

He wore fine white robes, the finest clothes he ever owned. Like so much else, they had been a gift. The twin revolvers hung at his waist, well polished. His head bowed. He felt ill with grief. The cairn was finished earlier today. It had taken him days; the stone was wrought from the rift, enchanted to stand outside of time. This monument to his mentor, to his friend, would stand forever, so long as the rift persisted. Storm clouds gathered overhead, and a calm radiated from the shrine. He knelt, placed his gentle hand on the headstone, and wept.