Of all the depressing Eowyn dies before Faramir drabbles, here's another.  Spur of the moment; I found it fitting. 222 words

Write a memoir, she suggested to him – was it out of pity?  Pity for the graying but still-hale man who stood tearless at the foot of the grave.  But it was the queen, who spoke from her tears, and as his dry eyes looked into hers he knew she understood.

But now the parchment confronted him, like a stretch of golden fields where they raced her thoroughbreds in the spring, like the unbounded expanse of the sky – they had lain under its embrace, arms around one another, as he spoke to her of the stars. 

He knew not where to begin.  There was only a feeling, an innate warmth that he could not – would not – share.

Then he thought of his wife, who had worn more green than white after they came to this house, whose once-pale skin glowed gold from her days under the sun.  He thought of her berating him now, in a stringent tone of extreme exasperation, what a waste of time, Faramir!  She would tap her toe, eyes flashing, cooped up indoors, when you could be outside, weeding my gardens.  And the grandchildren, remember them?

The smile came from nowhere, and his face protested the foreign expression – the body forgets so quickly.  Putting down the pen, Faramir stood slowly from his chair.  He would not regret a thing.