Mulder stands over her grave, hands shoved into his pockets. He brushes the smattering of orange leaves off of her flat tombstone with his foot. He tugs at the zipper of his jacket, shivering. The wind rustles the leaves on the trees and tussles his hair. He glances from side to side before clearing his throat. "I came to tell you about this week," he says.

He stares at the tombstone, which doesn't reply. He sighs. "I don't know why I do this," he directs at the grave. "I don't even believe you're actually dead."

"You know why," a voice behind him answers.

A gust of cold wind whips through his jacket. He looks to his right; a woman stands next to him. She's wearing a jacket over a brown pinstripe suit. The breeze blows her fiery red hair across her face. In one smooth movement, she tucks it behind her ear like she used to every day. "Mulder, you're here almost every week. You have been for two years."

Mulder crosses his arms and stares at the ground. "I have nothing better to do."

"You're alive; you have hundreds of things to do."

"You're alive too, Scully," he says, hushed.

Her hand hovers over his shoulder, as if she's resting it there. "You know that's not true."

"It is true," Mulder insists. "A body was never found."

Scully let out a hollow laugh. "It's been two years. I'm gone."

He shakes his head, tears filling his eyes. "You aren't, you can't be."

"Deep down, you know I am. You've known for years."

His throat closes. "That's not true," he manages.

"Mulder," she says, pity lacing her voice. "It's not a sin to move on. Leave the dead in the ground."

"But I love you."

Scully doesn't reply. Mulder turns around, but she vanished. Loneliness squeezes his heart like a vice. He falls to his knees, tears spilling down his face. His jaw trembles, and a sob escapes his lips. Raw pain tears through him, like the day she had been declared deceased. His body shakes violently, wracked with sobs. He weeps until his voice turns into a dull rasp, until his chest aches as much as his heart does.

Leaves skip across the ground, scraping over Scully's grave. He sits, unable to pull himself up. The dull thud of his heart echoes through his chest which feels all but empty. Her death left him the shell of the man he used to be. Now he walks through life, detached. He can't remember the last time he felt even a spark of joy. As a kid, he heard stories of dying of a broken heart; he had convinced himself that the stories were untrue. Now, he's not so sure.