For the dverse prompt.

There are four graves in the family plot in the corner of the north meadow, wrought iron-railinged and ringed with trees, in two beds, in life as in death, Georges and Henriette in one, Jean-Marie and Jacqueline in the other. Georges and Henriette lie beneath a handful of unweeded gravel bordered by rough stone, their names hand-painted on pieces of slate. Jacqueline and Jean-Marie lie beneath sumptuous red marble, weighted down with polished plaques and pots of porcelain flowers.

All the plaques are Jean-Marie’s, from family and camarades from the Société de Chasse, of game birds picked out in bronze, gun dogs, men with rifles, all dedicated to a valued member of the pack. Even in death, Jacqueline is mute, unrecognised, her sole function, to display her husband’s trophies. I don’t need to know any more, Jean-Marie. I dislike you enough already.

Light changes softly