And sometimes the cruelest thing about the truth…
is that it’s still beautiful enough to keep you alive.
***
A few days pass.
The storm that night feels like it happened in another lifetime now, but the heaviness inside my chest hasn’t gone anywhere. The cemetery is quiet this morning. Gray clouds stretch across the sky, thick and low, like the world itself is holding its breath. The air is cool, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and fallen leaves. Somewhere in the distance, a crow calls once before silence settles again. I sit on the small wooden bench in front of the headstone.
The wood beneath me is slightly cold. My hands rest quietly in my lap as I stare at the carved letters in the granite.
Clara Laurent
1994 – 2026
Beloved Sister
Free from earthly suffering. Finally at peace.
My eyes linger on the words. For a long time, I don’t move. The wind shifts softly through the cemetery trees, rustling the leaves above me. The sound feels strangely peaceful. For days, my mind has been a battlefield of memories, grief, and truth.
But here…
Sitting in front of Clara’s name…
Something inside me finally settles. No more denial. No more pretending she’s still out there somewhere. No more calling a number that will never answer.
She’s gone.
And accepting that truth feels quieter than the lies my mind built to survive it. My fingers trace the edge of the bench as I look at the grave again. Clara always hated silence. She used to fill every quiet moment with some ridiculous story or joke.
Now the silence feels endless. The wind picks up slightly. And then, footsteps. Crunching softly over gravel behind me. I don’t turn because for some reason, I already know who it is. A moment later, someone sits down beside me.
Lucien.
The bench creaks faintly under his weight. We don’t look at each other. We just sit there. Two people staring at the same grave. The silence stretches between us, but it doesn’t feel awkward. Just heavy, honest. The kind of silence that comes when there are too many things to say and no words big enough to hold them.
After a while, Lucien exhales slowly.
“Sera.” My name sounds different in his voice now. “I’m sorry.”
The words come out rough, like they’ve been sitting in his throat for days.
I keep my eyes on the gravestone.
“I saw your name on the employee list a week before the convention,” he continues.
His hands rest loosely between his knees as he stares down at the gravel.
“The plane seat… the hotel reservation… the timing of everything…”
A faint, bitter smile touches his lips.
“I planned all of it.”
The confession hangs in the cool air.
“I was hurt,” he says quietly. “Angry.”
