They went in the morning.
Before the city fully woke up, before the cemetery filled with the Sunday visitors who came later with flowers and folding chairs and the specific rituals of grief that had become routine. They went early, when the light was thin and the ground was cold and the place had the quality of somewhere that existed between times.
All of them.
Adrian. Mira. Kofi. Juno. Damien. Helena. Caelan.
Seren.
He carried the flowers. White ones — her preference, which all three siblings knew without having to discuss it.
They walked from the entrance to the grave in a loose group. Not arranged. Not ceremonial. Just moving together the way people moved when they were in a place together that required no performance.
The grave was simple. The headstone they had chosen was the one she would have chosen — clear, specific, no flourishes. Her name. The dates. One line beneath: She showed up for the small things.
Seren had written that.
Mira had approved it immediately.
