Rain fell in relentless, silver sheets over Arlington National Cemetery, drumming a hollow rhythm against ten thousand marble headstones.
The sky wept charcoal tears, blurring the world into a watercolor grayscale. Lilian Greaves knelt on the sodden earth, her black coat plastered to her skin like a second shadow. Her gloved fingers traced the letters carved into the cold stone, each groove a familiar scar on her soul:
ROBERT GREAVES
BELOVED FATHER
1939 – 1994
Water dripped from her lashes, mingling with rain as it slid down her cheeks. She didn't wipe it away, her limbs were too saddened to do anything.
She barely felt cold anymore. Cold had ceased to register years ago, buried alongside the memory of finding him— her loving father — in their cramped Kings apartment.
The sour tang of despair still haunted her: the stillness of his hand curled around the foreclosure notice, the vacant stare, the silence louder than any scream.
