Lucas hadn’t always been this quiet. He used to be the kid who filled every room with questions, who raced through the neighborhood on his bike with scraped knees and wind-tangled red hair. His mother called him her little meteor—always in motion, always burning bright.
Now, he stood silently beside the headstone, fingers curled around the stems of the flowers he’d picked himself. They weren’t perfect—just a few daisies and wild tulips from the park—but they were fresh and bright, and that mattered. His sneakers were damp from the morning dew, and the chill in the air tugged at the sleeves of his sweater.