Page 9 of Bound By Crimson
And nothing else mattered.
The betrayal with Rowan was buried beneath deeper grief. She hadn’t even thought about it in months.
Not until today. Not until she saw them sitting there, laughing like nothing ever happened.
She told herself it didn’t matter anymore.
She had more important things to carry.
Things Rowan would never understand.
The flicker of the flames steadied her breath.
Her phone buzzed on the counter.
She glanced down. A message from Rowan.
Lyric exhaled slowly and turned the phone over without answering.
Some things were too heavy for text messages.
---
The bells above the door chimed softly as Lyric flipped the sign to Closed.
It had been a slow evening. It was always slow.
Velora didn’t really need her working the evening shifts. She barely needed help at all. But after Lyric’s parents passed, Velora had offered her the job—not because the shop was busy, but because she knew Lyric needed something to anchor her. Something to keep her moving.
Lyric knew it was charity. She also knew Velora would never admit it. That was just who she was.
She grabbed her bag and pulled on her father’s cardigan—faded navy, the kind of blue that used to be bold but had grown soft with time and wear. The sleeves stretched past her wrists, the cuffs frayed and familiar.
Outside, the air had cooled. The moon hung low, casting a silver haze over the quiet streets.
It was almost nine.
Time for her nightly walk to Rosewood Cemetery.
---
She followed the familiar path toward the edge of town, her footsteps soft against the cracked sidewalk.
Most of the houses were dark now. Porch lights flickered. The occasional dog barked behind a fence.
As the houses thinned out, Rosewood Cemetery came into view.
The iron gate stood open as always, hinges rusted in place. Wild ivy curled along the fence posts. The headstones beyond sat in quiet rows beneath the silver-washed sky.
Lyric slipped through the gate and crossed the damp grass. She didn’t need to search. Her feet knew the way.
The Dawson headstone stood beneath a crooked oak.
Marianne Dawson.
Raymond Dawson.
No flowery inscriptions. No long-winded epitaphs. Just names. Dates. The finality of carved stone.
