The year he leapt.

Thick green thorns push into Ada's hands. The bouquet of 1000 red roses bleed their petals and perfume all over Ada's black dress and onto the crisp white snow. 

Drip

Drip

Drip

Who could have predicted Grandfather would die?

Who could have known that Grandfather was not immortal?

His glasses, the pen in his pocket, his warm large hands, and the everlasting smile on his face, and the way that he knew how to negotiate with princes and paupers seemed to have predated written history. 

Drip drip

Outside, the snow weeps and Adam is nowhere to be found. 

Drip drip drip drip Do you not think that this is too much? The readers want sadness not syrupy. They want Greek myth not telenovelas with crispy chicken ranch dressing for god's sakes. I suggest to keep this for another line down.

Ada's face is bruised by the harsh wind and red lines appear underneath her tears. 

The canopy of white, red, black, adorned by green thorns and gossip.

Grandfather left no will. 

At noon, the crows start appearing. Lady Beverly with her lace gloves. Children, all ages from nine to seventeen, adorned in black, march towards the hole in the ground. 

There is no joy here. 

Hades yawning, bored, waiting for the graveyard men to attend and provide some solace.