The July sun over Oakridge Cemetery was relentless, baking the rolling lawns into pale, brittle straw. For three weeks, a cloudless sky had held the town under strict water restrictions. Parks were dying, residential yards were bleached yellow, and the headstones jutting out across Section C looked like lonely grey teeth in a parched desert.
Daniel Harper stood at the foot of Plot 412, clutching a small bouquet of white daisies, the weekly ritual he had kept for eighteen long months since the accident. He looked down, expecting the same burnt turf that covered every surrounding grave.
Instead, the grass over Emma’s resting place was a lush, vibrant green, so thick and healthy it looked almost unnatural, like a strip of fresh moss laid out in the middle of a wasteland. Daniel knelt beside the granite headstone, setting the flowers down before pressing his palm flat against the turf.