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Everyone had their own rituals.[break][break]

And for some people like Anne, a weekday was just an extended series of rituals that took an aggregate 24 hours to complete.[break][break]

5AM. Wake up. 5:30AM. Shower and morning routine. 6AM. Breakfast. 6:30AM. Leave for work. 6:45AM. Arrive to work fifteen minutes early. 7AM to 12PM. Work. 12:30PM. Get a six-inch Veggie Delight on wheat, toasted with extra american cheese, lettuce, onions, olives, pickles, and cucumbers, extra mustard, and salt, pepper, oil, and vinegar from the Subway on Guildenstern Avenue. 12:45PM. Return to work 15 minutes early. 1PM to 7PM. Work. 7:30PM. Arrive home. 8PM. Dinner. 9PM. Evening routine. 10PM to 5AM. Sleep.[break][break]

And so on.[break][break]

There were little things, too. Little things like how she always blinked three times in rapid succession after she applied her mascara, and how she always laced her fingers together and cracked the joints in her hands when she sat down at her desk in the morning, and how she always ate the bits that had fallen out of the sandwich first before she began to eat the sub itself, and how she always sloshed her drink about in its glass before she took a sip, and how she always, in the rare occasions that she allowed herself to enjoy small-sized sweets like M&Ms or Skittles, popped them into her mouth in multiples of two.[break][break]

And then, there were the rituals that came less often. There were the weekly ones - like grocery shopping at Safeway, or buying makeup at MAC; and there were the monthly ones - going to the pharmacy to pick up her meds, praying to God that no-one would recognize her and that this would be the time that the pharmacist wouldn't give her that eyebrow raise that they always did without fail.[break][break]

There were the yearly ones, as well - the ones such as today.[break][break]

At the highest point of the arts district of Clinton Hill in Brooklyn, behind a small, well-maintained park, stood a fifteen-foot high, 200 foot-long wall of plain, smooth concrete. It stood alone, both sides exposed to the elements, and to the paint and paper of anyone who chose to use it as their canvas.[break][break]

The Brooklyn Wall of Remembrance was built explicitly as a memorial where anyone could mark the passing of those they loved. It was used by everyone - civilians, emergency services workers, military personnel - everyone. Even the syndicates of the Big Apple used it - though many a brief and bloody spat had erupted when one group covered or defaced the respects left to the fallen of another's.[break][break]

For someone with such a tight, meticulously planned-out life as Anne's, the young woman’s annual pilgrimage to the great weathered concrete wall in Clinton Hill was uncharacteristically spontaneous for her - she simply undertook the voyage when she felt the time was right.[break][break]

One year, she went in April in the early morning, squinting into the sky, spending a whole hour watching the colors transition from navy to royal blue to cyan as the sun rose up behind the wall, face mask covering her lower face to protect from the allergenic pollen in the air.[break][break]

Another year, she had gone in early December at mid-day, eating her sub with a long coat over her shoulders as she watched falling snow settle atop the wall in piles and fall in little micro-avalanches to the foot of the wall, only to be crushed beneath the boots of other visitors.[break][break]

This year was different from the others. Different in that there was no Wall of Remembrance to visit, for she was no longer in Brooklyn. No, she was across the country, alone in an entirely unfamiliar city, with neither friend nor kin to her name - and without a Wall of Remembrance to write upon.[break][break]

But that wouldn't stop her from making one.[break][break]

She had seen it in passing on her way back from work - a large, nondescript concrete wall standing alone in an abandoned lot. The perfect canvas.[break][break]

It was on a temperate August evening after a particularly late workday that she had decided to stop by the spot on her way back from work. The subway station was just about empty by this time of night, and Anne found herself alone in an empty train car on her way to Capitol Hill. It was quiet, peaceful. No-one around to look prim and proper for, and yet, she sat in her work clothes with her legs crossed over one another and her purse on her lap as if it were a full car on a Monday morning in Manhattan. She knew not why.[break][break]

It had begun to rain by the time the violet-haired woman had reached the spot. There were very, very few people around in such a place at such a late hour, and the rain would likely drive the rest away before long. Good. Musing was best done alone. Characteristically, she'd had the foresight to bring along a black umbrella, so the rain presented little issue, apart from the cold.[break][break]

The dull clicking sound of heels against water-soaked cement punctuated the lavender-haired woman's approach to the concrete wall, echoing loudly in the lack of background noise apart from the gentle pitter patter of rain. Sighing to herself quietly, the young officer produced a black Sharpie from her purse - and began to write upon the wall.[break][break]

A man’s name, Italian in origin, underscored by a hyphenated pair of years and the words 'Requiescat in Pace'.[break][break]

It was done.[break][break]

Anne’s breath caught in her throat for a brief moment, causing her to blink in mild surprise at herself, and she let out a shaky exhalation, rapidly blinking away any potential semblance of anything that may have been thinking of escaping her tear ducts. The gloved hand that was not holding the umbrella shook subtly at her side; whether this was due to the cold or something else, she could not tell.[break][break]

She hoped that no-one was watching; she felt like the whole world was watching.[break][break]

And yet, despite her shaky breathing, despite the cold embrace of the wind upon her bare legs, her gaze remained steely and utterly cold.[break][break]

It’d been half a decade since she had buried him. He was dead, and gone forever. Nothing would ever change that.[break][break]

She had made sure of it.[break][break]

Everyone had their rituals. Anne was no different.

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