Thomas sensed it before he saw it—an intrusion into a space that had remained untouched for months.
Someone was kneeling at Ethan’s grave.
A woman.
Annoyance flared first. No one else belonged there. No one.
He picked up his pace, leaning harder on his cane. As he drew closer, details sharpened. Her coat was thin and worn. A dark scarf covered her hair. An infant slept against her chest, bundled tightly. Beside her stood three children, close together, as if instinctively guarding one another.
They didn’t belong among polished stone and quiet order.
“Excuse me,” Thomas said sharply. “What do you think you’re doing at my son’s grave?”
The woman turned. Her face showed exhaustion rather than fear. Red-rimmed eyes. Calm restraint. She pulled the baby closer.
The children looked up.
And Thomas forgot how to breathe.
Those eyes.
All four of them.
Same shape. Same depth. Same unmistakable gaze that once looked back at him across a dinner table filled with tension.
His knees weakened.
The oldest child—a boy no older than eight—stepped forward.
“Mom says you’re our grandpa,” he said softly.
The word struck like a physical blow.
Grandpa.