The late afternoon light was thin, shadows stretching long across frost-hardened ground. He zipped his hoodie higher against the chill, his breath fogging as he stepped onto the gravel path. Each crunch beneath his sneakers echoed louder in the stillness. He shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind, and made his way toward the crooked willow.
His mother’s grave waited there, quiet and constant. But he stopped short. Someone else was already there. A girl—his age or maybe a little younger—stood near the headstone, kneeling in the grass that was stiff with cold. Her breath misted as she leaned forward, her gloved hands gently picking at a few windblown petals near the base of the stone.