It was a sunny day, quite the contrast for where he was standing. Kunikida stood by some graves, placing flowers by them. There was no distinct expression on his face. He used to cry all the time whenever someone that he tried to save died—he used to not be able to come into work because of how distressed he was. He thought of it as an exchange by visiting their graves. A slight breeze would blow his bangs in his face, his hand brushed them to the side. Kunikida kept staring at the graves until he heard the person beside him speak.

”Will the dead be comforted by tears?” He heard the voice ask. Kunikida shook his head, he doubted that the dead would even be able to know of such tears.

“I doubt they’d be comforted or redeemed by tears,” he stated, “After all, their time stopped at the moment of their deaths.”