Innocence.

It was what he thought of, seeing her standing in a black suit at her father's grave. It is what she embodied to him, as though she was the incarnation of purity itself. As pure as the white blouse beneath her funeral attire.

She had the beauty of a child, blameless, light. Even her sorrow at her father's passing is pure, the weightless, unencumbered sorrow of loss. Like a clean break, the hurt will heal without infection, without festering.

Innocence.

Even when that blouse fell to the ground at her feet (he'd had to stand there and watch as she undid the buttons one by one, his hands useless at his sides because he knew – she hadn't said, but he knew – he was forbidden to touch her.) he had still thought of her that way – INNOCENCE! – despite, or perhaps because of the smooth black lines that represented so much pain.

He is afraid to touch her, even if he could, because there is something in her beauty that he would tarnish with that action. Her calm is boundless, a never ending well that soothes him, calms him when he curses and shouts.

Innocence.

It is now that he realizes how absurd this idea is – now as she stands before him with blood brown on her clothes and invisible on her hands.

Somehow, he still finds her beautiful, perhaps even more so because he is no longer afraid of damaging her, and that attainability, the ability to reach out and place his hand on her face is intoxicating.