Sorrow comes in peculiar ways. The father
kneels next to his motionless son, icy tears
rolling down as he grips an icy hand.
Grief comes in peculiar ways. The man pushes through nipping wind and snow, the night air a cacophony of sobs and creaking trees.
Hope comes in peculiar ways. He stumbles into an abandoned graveyard, falling to his knees still clutching his stone grey child. The man's eyes rise to meet the pale one's of a ghost blue woman.
Happiness comes in peculiar ways. The ghostly lady bends down, pressing pale lips against lifeless skin. The child's flesh flushed, his chest finding its rhythm once more. Warm tears rolled down his cheeks as he held a warm hand. He laughed in relief as he felt his son's real heartbeat, heard his real breath, and hugged his real boy.