It wasn't suicide.
It wasn't suicide.
It wasn't suicide.
That voice in my head won't stop echoing, like Raiden just ripped it out of the prison I'd locked it in. We walk along the dirt trail leading to a small patio in the garden.
The yellow-red shimmer of drying leaves glistens above us as we reach the circular stone area, its design held together by small angel carvings at the edges. Overhead, a thatched roof stretches wide, its painted blue ceiling flecked with wisps of white — clouds caught in a manmade sky.
It's peaceful here. Too peaceful for the kind of news I know Raiden's about to give me.
He doesn't look at me. He saunters to the edge of the ring, sets both hands on the stone ledge, and presses lightly — as if testing its strength. A soft breeze rolls through, smelling of wet earth and fallen leaves. The cemetery gardeners must love their work for the grass to stay this green, for the dew to cling this long under the glare of the sun.
