The morning airbites at my cheeks, but it’s not just December’s chill that makes my steps slow and hesitant as I approach the familiar single headstone where Jackson rests.
I’ve walked this path hundreds of times over the past twelve years, every single time wondering what it would be like if my big brother were still here. We were always best friends, but there are so many life milestones we’ve missed, so many celebrations and day-to-day stuff.
Would he have made the same decisions I've made for the farm? Or would they be different? Would we disagree on the direction of the business? I'll never know.
The shock of seeing someone at Jackson’s grave stops me mid-stride. I recognize Bastian’s broad shoulders and his silver-streaked hair immediately. He’s crouched beside the headstone, one hand resting on the smooth granite while the other moves through the air like he’s telling a story.
I’m torn between the desire to approach him and the need to preserve the privacy of the moment I’m witnessing. Bastian’s voice carries faintly, but it’s still too quiet to make out the words. The tone, however, is clear enough. Conversational, warm, likehe’s catching up with an old friend over coffee rather than speaking to a cold stone that marks the absence we both still feel.
I shift my weight slightly, trying to decide whether to retreat and return later, but the frozen grass betrays me with a sharp crack.
Bastian turns at the sound, and as soon as his eyes meet mine, I see his are red-rimmed and bright with tears. For a moment, we just stare at each other.
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, wiping the tears with the back of his hand. “I didn’t… I mean, I should go. Give you privacy.”
“Stay,” I manage, my voice surprisingly steady. “Please. You don’t have to leave.” My feet finally remember how to move, carrying me closer to the grave that’s drawn us both to this particular spot on my property on this frost-bright morning.
Bastian watches my approach with an expression I can’t quite read, although the tension in his shoulders eases slightly. “I wasn’t sure,” he admits quietly as I reach him. “If you’d want me here.”
I lay the flowers beside the headstone, my fingers lingering on the cold granite. “Have you…?” I start, then pause, gathering courage to ask the question I’m not sure I want the answer to. “Have you been here before? Other times?”
His expression is filled with so much raw honesty that it makes my chest ache. “Every time I’m home,” he says, his gaze fixed on Jackson’s name carved in the stone. “I’ve been doing it for years. Keeping him updated on everything: band stuff, touring stories, awards we’ve won…” His voice catches slightly. “Stupid things, really. Like he’s just away on a trip and needs catching up.”
The admission hits me hard. Because this is a piece of Bastian I never considered, that while I’ve been guarding my grief like a precious thing, he’s been here sharing his with a silent stone and morning air.
“It helps,” he continues softly, “talking to him. Makes it feel less…” He gestures vaguely, searching for the word that might capture the magnitude of loss we both still carry. “Less final, maybe. Like he’s still part of things, you know?”
I nod, unable to speak past the sudden thickness in my throat. Because I do know. I understand perfectly this need to maintain the connection that death tried to sever. My own visits are no different, but I’ve always kept my conversations with Jackson inside my head, where they can’t be witnessed.
“I’m sorry,” Bastian says again, but this time the apology feels different. “Not sure what for, exactly. Everything. Nothing. Just…” He trails off, sticking his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “For his loss, for my absence, for you.”
“I know.” It’s all I can manage before the knot in my throat grows tighter. I’m starting to understand Bastian now. Why he stayed away but always returned. He was never the flaky rockstar I accused him of being.
Bastian settles onto the damp grass beside Jackson’s headstone, and I wonder how many conversations I’ve missed, how many stories have been shared in this quiet space while I was elsewhere on this land.
The grass feels cold and wet as I lower myself beside him, close enough that our shoulders brush. My fingers find a blade of grass, needing something to do with hands that want to reach for him.
“Do you…?” I start, then pause, gathering courage to ask a question that’s been building since his revelation. “When you talk to him, do you ever mention me?” The words come out smaller than intended, carrying a vulnerability I usually try harder to hide.
Bastian’s laugh holds genuine warmth that makes my skin prickle with awareness. “All the time,” he admits, turning slightly so our eyes meet. “I tell him about the orchard, howyou’ve expanded everything. How you’re basically running this whole town’s agricultural future.” His smile carries so much pride that it catches me off guard. “I think he’d be impressed. Probably not surprised, though, because he always said you’d do amazing things.”
“I miss him,” I say quietly, the words feeling inadequate against the weight of absence that still presses against my chest some mornings. “Miss his stupid jokes and terrible advice and the way he could make anything feel possible.” My voice catches slightly. “Miss having someone who knew exactly who I was trying to be.”
Bastian’s hand finds mine in the grass, tangling our fingers. “He knew who you already were,” he corrects gently. “The rest of us just needed time to catch up.”
“Do you know,” Bastian continues, “if he was seeing someone? Before…” He trails off, letting the unspoken words hang in the air between us. His thumb traces patterns against my palm, the touch grounding me as I process the question.
“He wasn’t dating anyone,” I say, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth despite the heaviness in my chest. “But he had a massive crush on a girl who worked at that hair salon in town.
“Seriously?” Bastian’s eyebrows rise slightly. “He never mentioned her to me.” Something like hurt crosses his face briefly before being replaced by curiosity. “What was she like?”
I shift slightly, turning more fully toward him while maintaining a connection through our linked hands. “Smart. Kind of quiet but funny when you get her talking. She’s married now. Jackson would find excuses to walk past the salon, try to time it for when she was on a break.”
“That sounds exactly like him,” Bastian says, affection clear in his voice. “Too nervous to just ask her out?”
“He was working up to it,” I explain, words coming slower now. “Had this whole plan about asking her to the Christmas Festival. She’s a single mom, so he wanted to make sure she knew he was in it for the long haul, not just some fun.” My free hand finds the headstone. “The accident happened the week before he was going to do it. I think he was really ready to settle down. Be a dad, have kids of his own with someone he loved.”
“That’s why he never wanted to join the band,” Bastian continues. “He couldn’t imagine being away from home that much, you and your parents. And he loved working on the farm.”
