Every Sunday.
Ten o’clock sharp.
No exceptions.
His driver would stop at the wrought-iron gates of Maplewood Rest Cemetery and leave without a word. Thomas always walked the rest of the distance alone. He told himself it was about reflection. In truth, it was the only place his thoughts no longer argued back.
He moved slowly between marble markers etched with dates that summarized entire lives in a single breath. In his hands, he carried a small bundle of white chrysanthemums, held carefully—like this was the last thing in his life he still knew how to do correctly.
At the far end of the grounds stood a young maple tree.
Beneath it lay his son.
Too young.
Far too young.
“Morning, kid,” Thomas murmured each visit, never expecting the silence to answer.
The stone read:
Ethan Caldwell
1990 – 2025
There was no photograph. Thomas had refused one. He didn’t want a frozen image. He wanted to remember Ethan as he truly was—tall, restless, with eyes that always carried a quiet resistance Thomas had once mistaken for rebellion.
Only after it was too late did he understand it was weariness.