Ethan Caldwell moved quietly between rows of headstones, holding a bouquet of white flowers close to his chest. He avoided looking at any other names.
He couldn’t. In a place like that, other people’s grief blurred into distant noise—but his own rang loudly, endlessly, inside him.
Ever since the deaths of his twin daughters, Lily and Chloe, he had come to the cemetery every single week. At first, people told him it was healthy, a necessary step in mourning. Later, they stopped saying anything at all.
A father’s grief isn’t something you question—it’s something you keep your distance from, something you respect in silence. Ethan was wealthy, yes—businesses, estates, influence—but in front of that shared grave, none of it mattered. He was just a man brought to his knees, trying to survive a loss that had shattered him completely.
The cold wind brushed against his face, but he barely noticed. His body functioned, but his soul felt hollow. The only thing left alive inside him was guilt—guilt for not being there, for arriving too late, for accepting the official story handed to him like a sealed envelope: “Don’t open it. It’s better this way.”