The night was silent — the kind of silence that pressed against your chest and made every heartbeat echo louder. The cemetery stretched endlessly before him, rows of pale tombstones glinting faintly under the moonlight. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of rain and earth. Logan's footsteps were slow, almost hesitant, as if the ground itself might shatter under the weight of his memories.
His black hoodie was pulled over his head, shadowing his face, but it couldn't hide the flicker of pain that crossed his features. In his hand, he held a single white rose — its petals already trembling in the breeze. He stopped before a headstone that bore a familiar name, one that never failed to tear him apart inside.
"Douglas Blackwood."
His brother. His other half. Gone too soon.
