: The Gar

-

ing but instinct. It felt as though something was pulling me-an invisible thread tugging at

en I s

alf-consumed by nature. The glass was smudged with moss, the frame r

pped

y. Heavy with memory. The scent of damp soil and dying roses c

rns ruled the walkways. Sunlight filtered in through the shattered ceiling

wrought iron bench. Be

hing told me he had been here-Christopher. This place fe

aw it-th

. +

etched initials. Rough

was

" a voice said behind

didn't need to. I

be it did. He wore a black sweater that clung to the hard lines of his chest, sleeves rolled to his f

ppearing when I'm not

bit of wandering w

ts crunching over brok

mean to

ed a foot from me.

weight, bringing our bodies just shy of touching. My heart stut

his place?

dn't leave

osts. A grave for things

went dr

esit

ia Bla

like it was a p

married. She died three w

happ

akewood. The police said it was an

s thickened with something too he

d me of he

rply. "That'

er. "You're softer. But you have the

'm just

d my cheek, fingers feath

. "But there's someth

my neck, tracing the edge of m

't be doing

can't stop thinking about you. The way you move.

've pull

reamed at him, run back to

I di

n-this broken, dangerous man-was th

your son,"

ried a man who left you her

m. "What do yo

bove mine. "Everything

e edge of madness, de

-he pull

h to drive

u," he said,

ragged waves. "T

sto

go back in

straight, jaw tense-as if lea

I collapsed onto the bench, chest heavin

s fa

even touched