My throat tightens as it always does here. I take a breath.
“I hate that you’re missing everything, and I hate that I’m here and you’re not. And I hate—” My voice breaks. “—I hate how fucking hard it is still.”
Wind whistles softly through the branches, and I tuck my face into my scarf, eyes burning.
“I met someone,” I say softly. “You’d hate that I’m opening with that. Mom would tell me to list my accomplishments first, then bring up the man.”
My lips twitch.
“And Dad would pretend not to care, but then interrogate me about his retirement planning.”
The ache behind my ribs grows sharper.
“I don’t know where it’s going,” I admit. “And I’m scared to want anything as much as I want him. But he makes me feel like I’m not broken, or too much, or somehow failing at joy. He makes me feel like maybe I could belong again. To something, or maybe someone.”
Tears rise again, hot and uninvited, and I press a hand to the cold stone.
“I miss you both, so damn much. Even on the days when I pretend I don’t.”
I bow my head, still kneeling, until the cold finally pushes me to stand and leave before I unravel completely.
But something glints near the next row of headstones—a faint shimmer of silver against the dull grey.
Curiosity and the need to do literally anything except cry drive me toward it.
It’s a phone, half-buried, screen dark, case scuffed along the corner. I crouch down to grab it, brushing it off.
The lock screen flickers awake with the movement and a photo fills the screen. It’s a scraggly tabby cat, looking particularly homicidal in a Santa hat. And next to her—Mason. Grinning like an idiot.
He must’ve dropped it here at some point. I look down at the gravestone behind it, trying to piece this together.
Marcus Fletcher, 1959–2022. Beloved husband, father, friend.
“Oh,” I whisper, as something wobbles loose inside me.
The flowers in the holder are a match, they're just a larger version of the festive ones I saw at my parents’ grave.
My eyes sting first, then my lips tremble.
I hesitate, then crouch down awkwardly, phone still clutched in my hand, unsure what the hell I’m doing, but doing it anyway.
“Well,” I murmur, clearing my throat. “Hi. Um. I’m Frankie. Your son misplaced his phone.” A nervous laugh slips out as I waggle it like he can see it. “Shocking, I know, given he’s basically an every-day hero. But organization skills? Debatable.”
The words feel ridiculous, but they tumble out anyway.
“I, uh… I met him before I met him, if that makes sense. Online voice messages that gotvery—Ah, you probably don’t want to hear that part.” I wince. “Sorry. You’re dead, you can’t disapprove of me.”
I shift, my voice softening.
“He’s good,” I say quietly, licking my lips. “Like,actuallygood, in the type of way you can’t fake. He’s been hurt, and it sits in his voice sometimes, but he still shows up for people… And I think he might’ve saved me from something I didn’t even realize I needed saving from.”
My lip wobbles, but I bite down on it.
“He makes me feel like maybe I could matter to someone again, maybe my heart could… and maybe I’m not as unloveable as I sometimes convince myself I am.”
A tear slips down and I swipe it away quickly.
“So if you’re taking requests,” I whisper, “keep an eye on him, okay? He’s doing the best he can, but he misses you. And if he’s falling for me, could you do me a solid and give him a sign I’m falling for him, too?”
