The shovel blade struck the coffin lid with a hollow, wooden thud that echoed in the marrow of my bones. It was a sound that didn’t belong in the world of the living—a sound that violated every social contract, every religious rite, and every instinct of sanity I possessed.
Less than an hour earlier, I had stood on this same patch of damp grass, watching a mahogany box disappear into the dark throat of the earth. I had thrown a handful of soil onto the lid, the dirt cold and greasy against my palm, whispering a goodbye that felt less like a parting and more like an amputation of my own soul.
But now, the afternoon sky over Ravenwood Cemetery looked like a bruise, torn between winter and grief. Heavy, slate-gray clouds pressed down on the treetops, and the faint hum of the wind wove through the headstones like a low moan. The mourners had drifted away, a sea of black coats and muted silence retreating to their cars, leaving me alone with the fresh mound of earth and a seven-year-old boy who was about to shatter my reality.
My boots were still smeared with wet clay when my son, Noah, tugged at my sleeve. His fingers, usually so sticky with candy or dirt, were clean and shaking so violently I thought he might collapse right there on the gravel path.
“Dad…”
