The graveyard was a landscape of biting wind and heavy silence. St. Jude's was secluded, the ancient oaks standing like sentinels over the weathered headstones. True to her word, Mrs. Devereux had ensured the space was empty of the vultures—no reporters with long lenses, no board members with hollow sympathies. Just the earth, the sky, and the crushing finality of a casket lowered into the ground.
Adrian stood by the fresh mound of earth, the single white lily in his hand trembling. His eyes were raw, the skin around them tight from days of salt and grief. He didn't look like the Executive Secretary of a multi-billion dollar firm, nor the radiant Adrienne. He looked like a boy who had lost his entire world.
He lowered himself into a squat, his fingers grazing the cold, polished granite of the headstone.
"I hope you're in a better place, Mom," he whispered, his voice catching in the wind. "I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry for everything. I love you."
