Joska liked to wander the cemeteries.
It was a fitting hobby, he supposed. He could only ever leave the house before the gates were usually locked up on the colder days, thanks to the ever-looming darkness and the chill in the air, and there was very little he could think of that was more picturesque than a man wandering the cemetery alone on a dreary day.
When he could, he tried to bring gifts, something small to place on the loneliest graves. Usually, it would be something mundane, something small that would be whisked away by the wind or buried beneath the dirt itself in time. His favourites were flowers; generic, perhaps, but something about it felt intimate, loving, even. Demeter would give him a flower or two when he asked, asking no questions; he didn’t know where Joska was going on the rare days that he got to leave before nightfall, and though he could tell that he was curious, he kept said curiosities at bay and resisted the urge to ask to tag along, settling for reminding him to be careful and to bundle up if it was particularly chilly.
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