Richard’s first instinct was irritation. This was his private grief. But curiosity rooted him in place.
He stepped closer, careful not to startle them. Then he heard their voices, soft and synchronized, clearly rehearsed.
“Thank you for saving us,” they whispered. “Thank you for letting us live. We wish we could have met you. Please watch over our mom. She’s grateful every single day.”
The words knocked the breath from his chest.
Saving us?
The girls turned at the same moment, their solemn brown eyes meeting his.
“Are you visiting someone too?” the one in red asked politely.
Richard swallowed. “Yes. I’m here to see my son. Andrew Caldwell. This is his grave.”
They exchanged a look of understanding — and suddenly both burst into tears. Not childish fussing, but deep sobs that shook their small bodies.
Panicked, Richard dropped to his knees in the damp leaves.
“I’m sorry. Please don’t cry. Did I say something wrong?”
The girl in red, her scarf stitched with the name Lily, hiccupped through tears. “Are you… Andrew’s dad?”
“Yes,” he managed. “How do you know my son?”
The other twin, Claire, wiped her cheeks and said the words that made the world tilt.