Page 171 of Buried in Blood
Tomorrow is the anniversary. Evelyn wants to visit the grave site. 2 PM. You’re not forgotten. Come if you can.
I reread it five times.
My throat tightens.
The date hits me like a bullet. One year since she died. One year since Evelyn’s world cracked wide open. One year since I started calling monsters by their real names.
I clutch the phone to my chest.
Part of me wants to smash it. Pretend I never saw the message. Pretend I can disappear into this nothingness I’ve been living in and never look back.
But a louder part…
Wants to stand beside them again.
Even if it’s just for one breath.
Even if Damien is hunting me.
Even if the ghosts at that grave site outnumber the living.
I swallow hard.
Tomorrow, I’ll go.
And if it’s a trap… then maybe that’s what I deserve…
* **
The sky is overcast.
Gray clouds blanket the sun like mourning veils, letting only thin light touch the cemetery. The air smells like damp soil and dying leaves. A breeze moves through the trees, rustling branches like whispered regrets.
We stand in a small circle—Evelyn, Astra, Lucien, Dante, and me—around the grave. No one speaks.
There’s nothing left to say.
Evelyn kneels first, fingertips brushing the edges of her mother’s name. She doesn’t cry. Not today. Her strength is different now. It’s not silence. It’s steel.
“She always believed people could change,” Evelyn murmurs. “Even when they gave her every reason not to.”
Astra sets a tiny bundle of fresh herbs on the soil—lavender and sage. “She made me feel safe. That was rare back then.”
Lucien steps forward next. He doesn’t bring flowers. He brings stillness. “She said the worst men often had the deepest wounds,” he says quietly. “I didn’t believe her. I still don’t. But I wish she were wrong.”
Dante kneels beside his wife. He says nothing. Just rests a worn photograph between the cracks of the headstone. A picture of Evelyn as a child, sitting on her mother’s lap, all curls and laughter. He presses his hand to the earth and breathes deep, like he’s trying to absorb the memory through his skin.
I linger last.
There’s nothing I can offer but truth.
“She would’ve hated who I’ve become,” I say, staring at the name carved in stone. “And maybe she would’ve been right to.”
“No,” Evelyn says, standing. “She would’ve seen your heart before your sins.”
I almost believe her.
We stand there for another moment—five broken souls on sacred ground—trying to borrow peace from the dead.
