“I need to see him,” I said, voice cracking. “I need—”
“There’s nothing to see,” she replied. “It’s over.”
Then, before I could force another word out, she closed the door.
Not slammed.
Just closed—slow, deliberate—like she was ending a conversation she’d been tired of for a long time.
I stood there staring at the door, my hand still raised from knocking, like my body hadn’t caught up to what my life had just become.
A year.
My father had been dead for a year.
And I was finding out on a porch like a stranger.
I didn’t remember walking away.
I only remember the street tilting slightly, like the whole neighborhood had shifted on its foundation. I walked until my legs hurt, until my mind stopped trying to make the sentence “your father was buried a year ago” sound less final.
Eventually, I ended up at the only place that made sense.
The cemetery.
THE GRAVE THAT WASN’T THERE
The cemetery sat behind a row of tall pines, the kind that always look serious, like they were planted by people who believed in permanence. A wrought-iron gate creaked when I pushed it open.
I didn’t have flowers.
I didn’t have a plan.
I just needed a marker. A stone. Proof.
I walked toward the office building, but a voice stopped me before I got far.
“Hey.”
I turned.
An older man stood near the maintenance shed, wearing a faded jacket and work gloves. His posture was casual, but his eyes were alert.
He wasn’t smiling.
He wasn’t friendly.
He was watchful, like he’d seen grief turn into trouble before.
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