The cemetery was silent in the way only old places ever were. But it wasn't peaceful. Alex had never believed in that, be always believed it was contained. As though the earth itself had learned to hold its breath out of respect for the dead buried beneath it. Tall trees bordered the grounds, their leaves barely moving despite the wind that brushed against Alex's coat. The sky hung low and grey, heavy with the threat of rain that never quite came.
He stood a few feet away from the headstone, his hands in his pockets and his posture rigid.
Richard Cross.
Beloved husband and Father.
Alex almost scoffed at the inscription.
He hadn't come here often. Once every few years at most. Not out of grief, he had finished grieving long before the funeral, but out of obligation. A quiet acknowledgment that no matter how complicated, strained, or broken things had been, this man was still his father and Damian's.
Alex exhaled slowly and stepped closer.
