SIX MONTHS AGO
Rain splattered on the black and gold coffin of Damien Cross as if even the sky refused to let him go.
The wind howled like it was in mourning, too. It was a cold, bone-deep wind that sliced through coats, umbrellas, and skin, carrying with it the scent of soaked lilies and fresh, unsettled earth.
Mourners lined the cemetery grounds in silence, huddled under black umbrellas that bent slightly in the storm. The kind of silence that felt sacred. Final. And utterly unbearable.
The casket descended slowly into the ground. Damien's initials were carved into the side as if that was enough—as if two letters could sum up a man like him.
Chloe stood at the edge of the grave, unmoving.
