She was gently plucking petals from a small cluster of wildflowers that grew near the base of the tree. Her dark hair was pulled back into a loose braid, her jacket dotted with colorful patches. A few picked blooms lay beside her, carefully arranged. Lucas hesitated. He almost turned around. She glanced up at the sound of his footsteps.
Her gaze landed on him, soft and unbothered. Then, almost like a reflex, she offered a small nod—an invitation, not an apology—and returned to her flowers. Lucas stepped closer. He recognized the grave immediately—his mother’s. A few fresh daisies had been laid beside the ones he’d brought last week. He cleared his throat.