It's Wednesday, July 6th, 1983. A month since he died. You'd told yourself that, in time, the chill would go away, and the odd sensation of falling would stop with the summer wind.

You were wrong. As you clench the straps of your backpack tighter, the wind just blows harder. It's like it wants to force you to turn around, to face it.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see something there, a dark shape in the fog. But you won't turn around. He's not there. He's dead.