The cemetery sat behind a row of tall, brooding pines, the kind that always look serious, like sentinels guarding the boundary between the living and the dead. A wrought-iron gate creaked a mournful protest when I pushed it open.
I didn’t have flowers. I didn’t have a plan. I just needed a marker. A stone. Proof that he had existed, and proof that he was gone.
I walked toward the small office building, intending to ask for the plot number, but a voice stopped me before I got far.
“Hey.”
I turned.
An older man stood near the maintenance shed, leaning on a rake. He wore a faded canvas jacket and heavy work gloves. His posture was casual, but his eyes were alert, sharp as a hawk’s.
He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t friendly. He was watchful, like he’d seen grief turn into trouble too many times before.
“You looking for someone?” he asked, his voice gravelly.
“My father,” I said, the words feeling heavy on my tongue. “Thomas Vance. I need to find his grave.”
The man studied me for a long moment, his gaze sweeping over my worn clothes, the plastic bag in my hand. He seemed to be weighing something.
Then he shook his head—once, a slow, deliberate movement.
“Don’t look,” he said quietly.
My heart sank, a cold stone in my gut.
“What do you mean don’t look?”
