“We’re here, Mr. Harper,” Thomas said gently.
Daniel stepped out alone, carrying white lilies. Ethan had hated extravagance.
“It’s wasteful,” he once argued. “Spend it on someone who needs it.”
The grave rested beneath a maple tree overlooking a small pond. The headstone was simple:
Ethan Harper
1989–2021
Doctor. Son. Friend.
Daniel had wanted more words. Achievements. Legacy. Ethan had refused.
Halfway up the path, Daniel stopped.
Someone was there.
A small girl knelt in the grass by the stone. Nine, maybe ten. Thin. Wearing a faded pink sweater with worn elbows. Her dark hair was pulled into a loose braid. She cried quietly, one hand pressed to the granite.
Not loudly. Not theatrically. The kind of crying that comes from deep inside.
Irritation rose first.
This was his grief.
“Why are you here?” he asked, his voice sharp from years in boardrooms.
She startled to her feet. A white hospital bracelet slipped from her fingers. She grabbed it quickly.
“I—I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Where are your parents?”
At that word, her expression shattered.
“I didn’t mean to,” she murmured, then ran between the trees.
Daniel stood frozen. Then he noticed something left by the headstone.
A laminated photograph.