David felt a sharp rush of disbelief followed by an instinctive wave of alarm. A boy lay asleep on his wife’s grave, his dark hair tangled, his face pale and drawn with exhaustion. His shoes were missing, his socks worn thin, and his hands clutched something pressed to his chest as though it were the only thing keeping him anchored to the world.
David took a careful step closer, the gravel crunching underfoot. The boy stirred but did not wake, only tightening his grip on the object he held. David bent slightly and saw that it was a photograph, old and faded, its edges soft from years of handling. His breath caught painfully when he recognized the woman in the picture.
Lucinda stood smiling in warm sunlight, her arm wrapped protectively around a young boy who looked strikingly similar to the child sleeping at her grave. The smile was not the formal one she wore at events, but the gentle unguarded expression David had seen only in private moments. For several seconds, his mind refused to connect what his eyes were seeing with reality.