The graveyard was silent. It was not the peaceful kind of silence that came with rest, but the heavy, suffocating stillness that pressed down on Damian's chest the longer he stood there. The air was cool, the sky overcast, clouds stretched thin like a promise of rain.
Damian stood before his father's headstone without moving.
The marble was pristine, untouched by time or neglect. Someone, Charles, most likely made sure of that. Fresh flowers had been placed neatly at the base, their colors too bright against the gray stone. He hadn't been here in years...He hadn't even tried to think about it.
Richard Cross.
Beloved husband.
Respected leader.
A man of principle.
Damian stared at the carved words and almost scoffed.
His jaw tightened.
"You'd hate this," he said quietly.
The sound of his own voice startled him. He rarely spoke here. Rarely allowed himself the indulgence of words when there was no one left to answer.
