bunch of violets

He was alone at the grave site, saturated in misty violets amongst all others, cold gray and unloved. A gaunt, pale man appeared beside him, as though he had followed bread crumbs, wearing a full length black cloak, soiled and matted at the bottom fringes from dragging along the pasture lane.
'I know you. You are the undertaker.'
'That I am, that I am,' nodding.
'You are way late.' Then, starting, 'Or you are early.'
Smiling, 'I am here only for the ghosts.'
'You are late.'
'Not necessarily.' Peeking inside his cloak at a loud wind-up clock, 'I am on time.'
'These violets,' shaking his head, 'Where they rise from. A mystery. They were her favorite.'
The wind came up, passing like a train, the violets rolled in a melodic wave, the stillness returned, the sound of the wind waving goodbye from the back of a speeding caboose. He looked at the undertaker just as the stranger was awkwardly trying to hide his hands.
'Ah, you did that.'
'Yes, I suppose.'
'I thought it was Tatyana,' he mused sadly.
'Of course it was the girl,' the gaunt man consoled.
He looked in the undertaker's magpie-black eyes.
'She's here?,' he said, barely above a whisper.
'This is the thing I do,' he yawned.
'But...why?'
'To bury once and for all, my friend,' pointing a finger to accent the once.
'Couldn't get it right the first time, heh, old man?'
The undertaker jumped slightly forward as though slapped on the back.
'She's laughing. She loves that,' he murmured out of the side of his mouth.