Chapter 15

The office smells faintly of coffee and clean carpet, the low hum of the vent filling the silences between words. Dr. Hale sits across from Conrad, notebook resting on his lap, though he rarely writes much down. He prefers to watch, to listen.

"You've been circling the fourteenth since January," Dr. Hale says gently. "How are you holding that weight this week?"

Conrad stares at the edge of the rug, jaw tight. "It's like waiting for an impact. I know it's coming, I can't stop it, but I keep telling myself maybe if I just don't move, it'll hurt less."

"That sounds like avoidance."

A humourless laugh slips out. "Story of my life."

"You've mentioned before that you haven't spoken much to your dad. Or to Jeremiah."

Conrad flinches at the name. "Yeah. Not really."

"Why not?"

"Because..." The words press hot and sharp against his teeth. "Because every time I hear their voices, I remember everything I lost. I remember Belly laughing with Jere, my dad pretending everything's fine, them looking at me like I'm radioactive. I don't..." He shakes his head, pressing his knuckles to his forehead. "I don't know how to sit in that without breaking."

Dr. Hale lets the silence stretch, steady and unhurried. Then, "What would breaking look like?"

"Like they'd finally see it. That I'm not the guy who can keep everyone steady. I'm the guy who makes a mess just by showing up."

"Is that what they'd say? Or what you tell yourself?"

Conrad doesn't answer. His chest tightens so quickly it startles him. The words feel dangerous, like they'll split him wide open if he lets them through.

"You don't have to forgive them. You don't have to even like them right now," Dr. Hale says. "But grief is a tide, Conrad. It pulls everyone under eventually. You either fight each other in the current, or you reach for the same rope."

Conrad's jaw works. "What if they don't want me reaching?"

"Then at least you'll know you tried. Avoidance feels like safety, but it's really just letting the wound rot. Reaching out... even if it's messy, even if it's painful... that's choosing to heal."

Conrad leans back, arms crossed tight, eyes burning holes in the ceiling. He wants to believe him. He isn't sure he can.

Later that night, Conrad's phone vibrates against Amelia's coffee table. What had started as a movie night had quietly transformed into something else—just Conrad on her couch, staring at nothing while she moved around him with careful distance, respecting the heaviness he'd brought with him. When Adam's name illuminates the screen, Conrad watches it ring once, twice, three times, his finger hovering over the decline button. On the fourth ring, he exhales and swipes to answer.

"Connie," Adam says, voice rough with static. "Hey. I wanted to... check in. You coming to Boston this weekend?"

Conrad swallows. "Who's going?"

"Just us," Adam says easily. "Me, you, Jere. We'll get dinner, maybe watch the game if it's on. Keep it simple. Thought it'd be good, you know—just the three of us."

The words land like a stone in Conrad's stomach. Adam has no idea—no clue about what last summer did to the brothers. Conrad presses his thumb into the arm of the couch, grounding himself.

"Yeah," he says finally. "I'll think about it."

Adam exhales, relieved. "That's all I ask. Think about it."

Amelia finds him later on, hood pulled over his head despite the warmth in the air. He's curled in on himself, knees drawn up, gaze fixed on nothing. The city hums below, headlights streaking across wet pavement. She doesn't speak right away—just sets a mug of tea on the railing and lowers herself into the chair beside him.

For a while, the only sound is the faint buzz of streetlamps and the clink of her mug when she takes a sip.

Finally, Conrad breaks. His voice is quiet, almost swallowed by the night. "I never told you everything about last summer."

Her eyes flick toward him, steady. "Then tell me now."

The words come slow, halting, like prying boards off an old house. "It wasn't just last summer. It started the summer before. I knew about Mum. About how bad it was. I overheard them fighting. She wanted a perfect summer—one last normal one. And me knowing would've ruined it. So I did the only thing I knew how: I pulled back. Removed myself. Thought it would protect everyone else."

His hands tighten around the mug but he doesn't drink. "I thought distance was safer. Easier. But it wasn't. It just made everything worse." His throat tightens, words rough. "I loved her—I still love her. I don't think there's been a second since I even knew what love was that I haven't loved her. But saying her name—" He stops, jaw clenching. "It feels like choking on glass."

Amelia doesn't interrupt. She just listens, her presence steady and grounding.

He continues, "I thought... maybe I was doing the right thing. At the end of that summer, when I finally got the courage to be with her, I told her I needed her. That I didn't want to keep pretending. And it was great. We kissed, we laughed and it was great. For about 5 minutes. And the she told me about Jeremiah. About how he also confessed his feelings for her, how he'd kissed her."

His laugh is sharp, bitter. "So I waited. Because he's my brother. Because that's what love is, right? Sacrificing what you want so the people around you don't drown. But eventually he gave me the green light. And for a couples months it was incredible, everything I thought being with her would be But then Mum was at her worst. Belly wanted to believe in this world where bad things didn't happen to good people. And I—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head. "I kept messing up. Forgetting the corsage for prom. Saying the wrong thing. Being... me. She ended it that night. I knew it was coming. I knew it was for the best. But it wrecked me."

He draws in a shaky breath.

"At the funeral, she told me she hated me. And I let her. I thought maybe she was right." His voice drops, a whisper edged with steel. "Last summer, when the house was going up for sale, I thought maybe this was my chance. I thought I could fix it. That I'd prove myself. But I was fucking blind. I came out of my last exam at Brown—the one that decided if I could even come here—and there they were. On the hood of my car. Kissing. Like it was nothing. Like I hadn't..." His throat closes.

Amelia tilts her head, softly: "Your car?"

Conrad lets out a humourless laugh. "Yup. Wearing my sweater too. Like twisting the knife wasn't enough."

The next words spill harsher, clipped, each one sharper than the last. "I just—I can't fucking wrap my head around it. How you can tell someone you love them, how you can shatter me in every way, and then just move the fuck on to my brother a month later like I was a placeholder. Like I didn't matter. Like it didn't cost me everything."

His chest heaves, jaw locked tight, anger simmering through the grief he's carried like lead in his bones.

Amelia waits a beat before speaking, the moonlight catching in her dark hair as she turns toward him. "Do you want me to just sit here with you... or do you want to know what I think?" Conrad looks at her, startled, raw, his face half-shadowed by the lamp light. "I want to know." Her voice is calm but unflinching, each word precise as a surgeon's blade. "I think that's the most fucked up thing I've ever heard." He blinks, defensive flaring in his chest like a match struck in darkness. "She didn't mean—" "I don't care if she meant it or not." Amelia's tone sharpens, her eyes steady on his. "She played two brothers against each other. Maybe not intentionally. Maybe she was scared, confused, whatever. But that's what she did. And you—" she leans closer, the scent of her new lavender shampoo briefly filling the space between them "—you keep bending yourself into knots defending her. Making excuses. But Conrad, it's messed up. Period." The words slice through him, brutal and true, like winter wind against bare skin. His jaw works, caught between protest and silence, the muscle twitching visibly beneath stubbled skin. For once, he doesn't know which way to lean. Amelia softens then, her shoulders dropping slightly as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her voice quieter but no less firm. "You deserved better than that. From both of them." Conrad stares at the city lights, a kaleidoscope of red and yellow blurring beneath unshed tears, hands trembling around the cooling mug, ceramic smooth against his calloused fingertips. The ache in his chest is different now—less crushing, more raw. Exposed. After a long silence broken only by distant sirens and the rustle of leaves, he speaks again, voice rough as sandpaper. "I can't do the anniversary alone. I thought maybe I could, but I can't." Amelia doesn't hesitate, her hand finding his forearm, warm through the thin fabric of his hoodie. "You don't have to. I'll come with you." His head snaps toward her, startled, eyes wide and vulnerable in the half-light. "But," she adds, firm but kind, her thumb tracing a small circle against his arm, "I'll get a hotel nearby. You need a chance to mourn as a family, even if it's messy. I'll be right around the corner if you need me. But you owe yourself the space to try." Conrad's chest aches again, but this time it's not jagged or suffocating. Something closer to relief, something like a breath finally released after being held underwater too long. He nods once, eyes burning with the salt of unshed tears. "Thank you."

The flight is half-empty, a late morning lull when most people are already at work. Conrad takes the window seat, navy hoodie zipped to his chin, white earbuds dangling like twin icicles but not playing anything. Amelia slides into the aisle seat beside him, dropping her worn leather tote bag onto the middle one, the scent of her vanilla perfume briefly cutting through the stale cabin air. "You lucked out," she says, nudging the empty seat between them with a freckled hand. "Built-in buffer zone. That's like first-class for economy." Conrad huffs a laugh, small but real, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to crease his cheek. "Guess you'll have room for your snacks." "Please," she says, already pulling out a blue sleeve of Double Stuf Oreos, the plastic crinkling loudly in the quiet cabin. "This is survival food." The banter holds them through take off, Amelia nudging him when his knuckles turn white against the grey plastic armrest, murmuring something dumb about turbulence just being the plane's way of dancing through cotton-candy clouds outside their window. But the closer the flight edges toward Boston, the heavier it feels in his chest, like concrete slowly hardening. The city is a gravity well, tugging at every raw memory he hasn't managed to stitch closed with Stanford's three thousand miles of distance. Amelia notices—of course she does, her eyes missing nothing. She doesn't press, doesn't force words into the silence that stretches between them like taffy. Instead, she slides an Oreo into his palm, the cookie warm from being held in her hand, and whispers, "You're not alone, Con," her breath smelling faintly of chocolate, and lets him sit with it. They check into the hotel just after lunch. The receptionist with a crooked name tag gives them rooms a few doors apart on the third floor, and Amelia sets her bag down in the hallway before turning to him, her dark hair falling across one shoulder. "I'll be here, okay?" she says, her voice firm but soft at the edges like worn denim. "As soon as you need, just come back here. You're not alone, Con." He swallows, throat thick as molasses. "Yeah." It's all he can manage, but Amelia doesn't need more. She just squeezes his arm through his hoodie, her fingers warm against the fabric, and heads into her room, leaving him with the silence and the promise.

Boston feels colder than he remembers. Conrad shoulders his duffel and makes his way to the restaurant Adam picked. Through the window, he spots them: his dad waving to the hostess, Jeremiah slouched in a chair, hair longer than before.

Conrad's chest tightens. Memories crash over him—of summers on the beach, of laughter and inside jokes, of the fracture that split all of it in two.

He pushes the door open. The hostess blinks up at him, asks how many in his party, and he just jerks his chin toward his family in the corner. "Already here," he says, and she nods, marks something off in her leather-bound book.

The place is warm, crowded, the air thick with the smell of roasting garlic and expensive cheese. He threads his way through clusters of business types and couples on early dates, every nerve in his body jangling with anticipation.

Adam beams when he sees him. "Connie! There you are." He stands, claps Conrad on the shoulder with a heavy, practiced hand, and herds him into the remaining chair so he's trapped between Adam and the window.

Jeremiah looks up, and for a second something raw flickers across his face—then it's gone, replaced with a smile that's a little too bright, a little too eager. "Hey, man," he says, voice lighter than air, but his leg is bouncing under the table, vibrating the silverware.

"Hey," Conrad answers, careful to keep his tone even, steady, as if that'll keep the whole evening from toppling over before it's started.

They do the stupid dance of menus and water glasses, a waiter in a tight white shirt coming over to take drink orders that no one really wants. Adam orders a bottle of wine "for the table," even though at least half the table can't legally drink it, and Conrad asks for a Coke just to give his hands something to hold.

Adam immediately launches into conversation. "So, California! Classes, sun, life in the fast lane?" His eyes linger a little longer on Conrad than Jeremiah. "You're really killing it out there, huh, kiddo?"

Jeremiah's smile tightens. "Yeah... killing it," he mutters under his breath, barely audible.

Conrad notices. His chest tightens. He tries to ignore it, focusing on Adam's booming voice as he recounts a client meeting in San Jose, peppering in jokes Conrad barely hears. He catches the way Jeremiah's shoulders hunch every time Adam praises him, the faint clench of his jaw, the way he twists a napkin obsessively.

Adam is relentless. He fills the silences with work stories, golf stories, even a few recycled dad jokes, and Conrad wonders if his father can feel the tension or if he's just wilfully oblivious, the way he was when Susannah started getting sick. Jeremiah pitches in when he can, offering a quick grin or a one-liner, but it never seems enough. Conrad wonders if Adam even notices Jeremiah flinching when he doesn't laugh.

Eventually they order, Adam pushing them both toward the steak ("best in Boston, trust me, boys") and Jeremiah relenting with a sigh. The waiter pours Adam's wine, and Adam holds the glass up, swirling it, studying the colour.

"To family," he says, locking eyes with Conrad, then Jeremiah, then Conrad again.

Jeremiah hesitates, then lifts his water glass and clinks it gently against Adam's, the sound barely audible. Conrad does the same, though the words taste like vinegar. He takes a gulp of Coke, cold and too sweet in his mouth, and lets the bubbles burn his throat.

The food comes, and it's absurd—thick slabs of steak, dripping with juice, potatoes heaped with butter and chives. Conrad eats because it's expected, but every bite sits heavy in his stomach, like he's swallowing stones.

Halfway through, Adam lowers his voice, as if he's about to discuss state secrets. "Jeremiah tells me you're top of your class."

Conrad glances at Jeremiah, who just shrugs, not quite meeting his eyes.

"I'm doing okay," Conrad says. "It's not—" He stops. He doesn't want to talk grades, doesn't want to talk about anything that matters. "It's not that hard," he finishes, which is a lie, but less of one than saying he's fine.

Adam tilts his head, as if examining a specimen. "You always did go overboard. Remember when you built that model of the solar system for the science fair and rigged it to rotate with a car battery?" He laughs. "Nearly burned down the garage, as I recall."

Jeremiah smiles, weakly. "Yeah, and then you grounded him for a month."

"Worth it," Adam says, and looks at Conrad with something almost like pride.

Conrad forces out a laugh, but the memory just makes his skin crawl. He picks at his steak, listens to Adam and Jeremiah lob stories back and forth, but he can feel the real conversation lurking underneath, waiting for its opening.

It comes after the plates are cleared. Adam leans in, elbows on the table, and says, "So, Connie. Where are you staying tonight? You with us, or are you crashing with a friend?"

Conrad's eyes dart to Jeremiah, who looks away instantly, busying himself with folding his napkin into tiny squares.

"I booked a room at the hotel down the street," Conrad says, voice even. "It's not far."

Adam's brow furrows, the lines deepening across his forehead. "A hotel? That's ridiculous. There's a spare bed, and Jere can handle the couch. No reason to waste money when you're family."

Jeremiah's shoulders go rigid under his sweatshirt. He opens his mouth, then closes it, like he had a thought but it got stuck somewhere on the way out.

Conrad tries to deflect. "It's just easier for the airport in the morning," he says, forcing a small smile. "And I already paid, so don't worry about it."

Adam frowns, as if about to argue, but then his phone buzzes on the table and he snatches it up, thumb moving quick across the screen. "Clients," he mutters, rolling his eyes, then looks back up like nothing happened.

The next few minutes are torture. Jeremiah checks out, picking at invisible flakes on his sleeve, and Adam launches into another work story, but Conrad can feel the tension building, like static before a storm.

"What about you, Jere? How's the semester going?" Adam asks, glancing at his watch. Jeremiah's face brightens. "Actually, we just finished rush week at the house. I'm social chair now, and—" He launches into a story about their themed party, gesturing with his hands, but Adam's eyes drift toward the door, then back to Conrad. Jeremiah's voice gradually slows, his animated hands settling back onto the table. "Anyway, it was... pretty cool," he finishes, trailing into silence as Adam nods absently.. Then, as if he can't stand another second, Jeremiah slides out of the booth. "Bathroom," he mutters, not looking at either of them, and disappears into the crowd.

Conrad stares after him, the empty seat across the table suddenly enormous.

When the check comes, Adam insists on paying, waving away Conrad's objections with a "don't insult me, when you're some big shot doctor you can pay." They stand outside a minute later, the city lights haloed in mist, the pavement slick and shining.

Adam claps Conrad on the shoulder again. "You coming to the house, or straight to the hotel?" Conrad glances at Jeremiah, who is staring at the ground, hands shoved deep in his pockets. "Hotel," he says, voice tired but steady. He shifts his weight, then adds, "So, uh... guess I'll see you round?" The question hangs there, too formal for family. Adam nods, says, "Good seeing you, kid." Jeremiah just lifts his chin slightly, a barely-there acknowledgment that makes Conrad's chest tighten. "Yeah. Bye, Dad. Bye, Jere," Conrad manages, before turning and walking away.

When Conrad steps into the hotel room, the faint scent of disinfectant and fabric softener fills the air. He drops his phone on the bed, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. The tension from the dinner still coils in his chest, and he moves toward the bathroom with mechanical precision.

The water hits hot and strong. He lets it cascade over him, steam fogging the mirror as he tilts his head back, eyes closed. Thoughts tumble over themselves, relentless. Adam's beaming pride, Jeremiah's stiff smiles, the way his father's gaze lingers on him like he's the golden child he doesn't want to be.

He runs his hands through his hair, water drumming on his skin, and all the old resentments rise up again. He knows Adam favours him because he sees a reflection of himself—because Adam thinks of Conrad as a mini-Adam, neat, disciplined, successful. And Conrad? He's determined not to be that. Not the type of person who neglects their wife during their hardest moments, who cheats and gaslights, who is so detached as a father they don't see tension within the family. Not the version of himself his father wants. Every achievement, every move, every quiet act of independence is now a deliberate statement: I am not you.

The shower ends, and he towelling off, muscles still tense, heart still thudding. The bathroom mirror reflects a face pale with fatigue, hair damp and sticking in odd angles. He retrieves his phone, thumbs moving without hesitation, and sends a quick text: "I'm back at the hotel."

After a moment, there's a knock at the door. Amelia's voice drifts in through the gap, "You alive in there, or should I call for a medic?"

"Alive," he mutters, voice rough. She's already stepping into the room, the familiar warmth of her presence easing some of the tension in his shoulders. She sets her phone down quietly, then perches on the edge of the bed. He sits beside her, letting the bed dip under their combined weight, the comfort of proximity grounding him.

They sit for a beat, letting the hum of the hotel seep into the silence. Amelia tilts her head, eyes soft. "So... dinner. How was it?."

"Yeah," Conrad says, voice low, rough around the edges. He runs a hand through his damp hair, still sticky from the shower. "It was... infuriating, mostly. I hate it. I hate him, but I also hate that I don't hate him, you know?."

"Your dad?" Amelia asks gently.

Conrad lets out a short, bitter laugh. "My dad... Adam sees himself in me. That's why he favours me. Every nod of approval, every smile—it's not because he actually sees me. He sees what he wants me to be. And I go out of my way to prove I'm not that. Not some perfect, untouchable version of him. I... I despise him for that. For seeing me as a shadow of himself instead of as Conrad."

Amelia reaches out, resting her hand lightly on his knee. "That's a lot to carry," she says softly.

"I know," he mutters, voice tighter now, almost a growl. "And Jeremiah... he knows it too, I think. That's why he hates me. Doesn't matter what I do. I'm the favourite, the reflection, the one Dad beams at like... like I'm some trophy he earned. And I'm not. I'll never be him. I'm... not him."

His hands clench in his lap, knuckles pale. "And the thing is—I can't even blame Jere for hating me. If I were him, I'd hate me too. It's fucked up, the way Dad prefers me. It's not fair, not to him. And the worst part?" He swallows, jaw tight. "I'm jealous of him. Because where I'm like Adam, Jere's like Mum. Easy, light, open. People are drawn to him. She adored him in a way I'll never not remember. And I'd give anything to be more like that. To be more like her."

She squeezes his knee, her presence steadying. "You don't have to be him. You just have to be you, Con. And that's enough."

He lets out a long breath, shoulders sagging slightly. For a moment, the room is just quiet, just the two of them, a hotel room as temporary as their conversation, yet somehow grounding. He finally glances at her, a flicker of gratitude breaking through the weight of his anger. "Thanks," he mutters, voice low, almost a whisper.

"You don't have to thank me," Amelia says. She leans back slightly, letting the silence settle, giving him space to just... be.

Conrad doesn't speak for a while, just letting the tension in his chest ebb slightly, knowing that while the storm of family expectations and betrayals isn't gone, he isn't facing it alone. After a beat, Amelia nudges him with her shoulder. "Tomorrow," she says, voice soft but steady. "Show me your Boston. Not the touristy stuff. The pieces that matter. The pieces that remind you of her." He frowns, caught off guard. "Amelia..." "I'm not saying it'll be easy," she cuts in gently. "But sometimes walking through the memories makes them less sharp. I'll be there. We'll take it slow." And though his instinct is to refuse, to hole up in the hotel until the day is over, something in the steadiness of her gaze makes him pause. He nods once, almost reluctantly, but it's enough.

The morning breaks grey and raw, the kind of Boston spring day that still bites. Conrad drives the rental with Amelia in the passenger seat, and together they trace the map of his mother's memory. The corner café where she'd insist on stopping for hazelnut coffee. The bookstore with creaky floors where she'd disappear into the fiction aisles for hours. The park bench along the Charles where she'd sit with a thermos, scarf wrapped too many times around her neck, laughing as the wind tore her hair loose.

He doesn't say much, but Amelia doesn't push. She walks beside him, listens when he does speak, and when he goes quiet again, she just matches her pace to his, a constant presence.

By the afternoon, they reach the cemetery. The gates rise black and wrought, the path lined with stripped trees waiting for spring. Amelia squeezes his arm once before letting go. "I'll wait in the car," she says softly. "Take the time you need."

Conrad nods, throat tight, and walks the gravel path alone.

He finds Jeremiah already there, hunched with his hands shoved into his pockets. Jeremiah's head lifts when he hears Conrad's footsteps. "You came," he says, like he's surprised.

Conrad only nods.

For a while, they stand in silence, brothers side by side before the stone etched with their mother's name. The air is damp, the kind of chill that seeps into bone. Conrad keeps his eyes fixed on the lettering, tracing each carved line in his head as though sheer focus could keep his mother closer. But Jeremiah, never good with silence, cracks first. "Belly wanted to come too, you know. I told her Dad wanted it to just be family." His voice tilts with something smug, like he's pressing a bruise. "She's been... really good for me. Us. Things are solid. Better than ever, actually." Conrad doesn't flinch, doesn't take the bait. His jaw tightens, but his gaze stays locked on the stone, on the flowers beginning to wilt at its base. "That's good, Jere," he says quietly, voice stripped of anything Jeremiah can feed on. Jeremiah shifts, foot grinding into the gravel. He was expecting a reaction. Anger, maybe. Jealousy. Something. Conrad's calm feels like an insult. "So you're going back to Stanford then?" Jeremiah asks suddenly, sharper now. "Just running away. Again." Conrad finally turns his head, eyes cutting toward him. "It's not running. It's my life." "Right," Jeremiah says, laughless. He kicks at a pebble, watches it skitter across the path. "You always have an excuse. School. Exams. Whatever. Always something more important than sticking around." Conrad's chest tightens, but his voice stays even. "I stuck around when it mattered most. Don't pretend you don't know that." Jeremiah's mouth twists, like he's holding back something harsher. "Yeah, well. Guess we just remember things differently." The weight of it hangs there, souring the air. Conrad exhales, long and tired. "I'm not doing this here. Not today." Jeremiah's hands jam into his pockets, his shoulders stiff. "Fine. Don't do it. Just... don't expect me to wait around for you to decide you care again." Conrad doesn't answer. He can't. Jeremiah huffs, mutters something under his breath—too low to catch but sharp enough to sting—and turns away. His footsteps crunch along the gravel until they fade down the path, leaving Conrad alone with the stone, the silence, the heaviness pressing in from all sides.

Conrad stays.

The silence folds around him again, heavy but familiar. He doesn't know how long he stands there, just breathing, wishing, remembering.

When the crunch of gravel returns, it's softer this time. Amelia. She doesn't say anything at first, just slips beside him, her coat pulled tight against the chill. Then, gently, she speaks—not to him, but to the grave.

"Hi, Susannah," she says, voice warm and steady, like she's meeting her properly for the first time. "I'm Amelia. I've been... hanging around your son a lot lately. Making sure he eats more than coffee and granola bars, dragging him outside when he forgets the world exists. He's stubborn about it, but he lets me."

Conrad closes his eyes, the words sinking into him, leaving him weary but somehow less alone.

Amelia's voice goes on, soft but sure, like she knows he needs her to fill the silence. "He works too hard, cares too much, and he doesn't let anyone see how much it costs him. But he's... he's brilliant. Brave, even if he doesn't think so. And I don't know what you'd say if you could see him now, but I hope it's something like what I'm trying to tell him—that he's enough. Exactly as he is." She brushes her gloved fingers lightly over the top of the stone. "He misses you. Every day. He doesn't say it out loud, not really, but it's in everything he does. And I just wanted you to know, wherever you are, that he's not alone. I'll make sure of it." The wind stirs, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and dying flowers. Conrad opens his eyes, stares at the name carved in granite, and for the first time all day, he doesn't feel like he's about to collapse under its weight.