I never liked kneeling. It always felt like a performance—a show of humility for an audience that wasn't there. But I was on my knees now, because some things demand it. Because the name carved into the granite in front of me was one I didn't get to say out loud anymore.
Elara.
The stone was colder than my hands, holding a deep chill that had nothing to do with the night air. A small, careful bouquet of paper flowers rested at its base. They trembled slightly, though the air was dead still, as if the ground itself was taking a slow, shallow breath. The world was quiet, save for the tiny, secret sounds it makes when it thinks no one is listening. The rub of grass against my shins, the damp smell of old soil, the sharp press of gravel into my kneecaps.
