The cemetery was silent in the way only the dead could demand.
Tall iron gates stood far behind Riley Styles as rain-soaked clouds drifted slowly across the night sky, muting the moonlight into a pale, ashen glow. Gravel crunched softly beneath his boots as he knelt before two adjacent headstones—clean, polished, untouched by neglect.
He had already done most of it.
The weeds were gone.
The stone had been washed carefully, dried with his own hands.
Fresh white lilies rested at the base of each grave, arranged with military precision.
Riley remained kneeling anyway.
His jacket lay folded beside him, sleeves of his black shirt rolled neatly to his forearms. He said nothing. No prayer. No whispered apology. Just silence—heavy, disciplined, practiced over years of returning to this same place.
His fingers brushed over the engraved names.
Elias Styles
Marianne Styles
Eight years old.
That was how old he had been when these graves became permanent fixtures in his life.
