His mind is made up. He needs to do this now, before it's too late.
 
He kneels on the curb, tying the laces of his old running shoes. It's difficult to remember the last time he ran. Motivation left him years ago. Rising up, his aged joints groan in protest. He already stretched, but his body still fights him. He knows the route he'll take. It is one he ran many times before; peppered with hills and uneven terrain, it will surely wear him out, but that doesn't matter. His destination holds a special significance for him.
 
Regulating his breathing, he takes a lurching step forward. He stumbles. His form is correct, but inactivity has made his joints stiff.
 
Another step.
 
He plants his foot firmly. He focuses only on moving ahead.
 
Another step.
 
His body seems to remember these actions. Flexibility is returning to his legs.
 
Another step.
 
His stumbling gait becomes a wilful stride. Quickening his pace, he shuts out his surroundings.
The only thing that matters right now is reaching his goal. Scenery blurs together. He leaves behind familiar sights; rows of houses dotted with small stores. Asphalt gives way to a winding dirt road, but he does not falter. A dull ache begins in his calves, but he ignores it.
 
He allows himself to admire the foliage tracing his path. It's more dense than he remembers.
 
Sweating, he rounds a corner which marks the halfway point of his journey. Breathing has become laborious, he's drenched in sweat, and there's an uncomfortable pressure on his chest. Swallowing only hurts his parched throat, but for such a short excursion, he needs no water. Mechanically, his feet beat out a steady rhythm.
 
His left arm hurts slightly.
 
He's almost there. Lush greenery falls away from the road which begins to ascend. A majestic gate punctuates the horizon. He toils up the hill, each footfall more difficult than the last. His body screams for him to stop, but he can't. Not until he breaches that gate.
 
Another step.
 
He's close enough he can almost touch the wrought-iron.
 
Another step.
 
He has done it. The gate looms before him, and he crosses it's threshold. He slackens his pace to an easy walk, but his heart still races. The pain in his left arm is like a hot knife, but he's too lost in reverie to take notice.
It is an empty, solitary place, but it is filled with his memories.
 
A rooftop.
 
A kiss.
 
A quarrel.
 
A confession.
 
A wedding.
 
An inconspicuous cut.
 
An infection.
 
A funeral.
 
He stands still in the middle of a row of graves.
 
“I'm here now.” His gentle speech is carried by the breeze. He kneels and produces a small card from his pocket. He chuckles to himself. It's adorned with child-like illustrations of strawberries, so he knows it's something she'd delight in. He places it delicately on a small gravestone.
 
A stabbing pain runs through his chest. He grimaces, but remains calm. He's neither scared nor sad. He knew this was going to happen.
 
“I'll be with you soon, Emi.”