Five years. That’s how long I’d been walking the same gravel path through Oakwood Cemetery. Every Saturday. Rain or shine. Seattle didn’t care about your grief — it rained on you either way.

That morning was no different. Cold. Gray. The kind of drizzle that soaks through your jacket so slowly you don’t notice until you’re shivering.

I parked at the far end of the lot. The longer walk helped. Gave my brain time to switch from “functioning adult” to “father visiting his dead son.” Two different people. I’d gotten good at the transition.

Then I saw her.

Someone was kneeling at Ethan’s grave.

Not standing. Not passing by. Kneeling. Arms wrapped around the headstone like she was holding a person. Her whole body curved into it.

My chest went tight. Oakwood was private. Gated. You didn’t just wander in here. And you sure as hell didn’t touch my son’s headstone like you knew him.

I crossed the wet grass fast, my shoes sinking into the soft ground.

“Excuse me,” I said. Louder than I meant to. “You can’t be here.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t jump. She just slowly lifted her head and looked at me.

And everything stopped.

Her eyes. Green shot through with gold, like cracked stained glass. I knew those eyes. I’d looked into them every morning for sixteen years. They belonged to my wife.

Eleanor had been dead for twenty-one years.

“I’m sorry,” the girl whispered. Her voice was hoarse. Thin. “I didn’t mean any harm.”

She was young. Maybe twenty. Soaked through, her oversized coat hanging off bony shoulders. She looked like she hadn’t eaten a full meal in days.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

She hesitated. Looked back at the headstone. Then at me.