Caleb chose the dawn.
Not because it was ceremonial.
Because it was quiet.
The burial grove lay still beneath pale morning light, mist curling low over the grass like breath held too long. The old stones stood in respectful rows, weathered and patient, names carved deep enough to last generations.
At the far edge of the grove were two smaller graves.
Elara’s children.
The boy with the broken heart.
The girl lost to Moon Fever.
Caleb had stood here many times over the years. Sometimes with flowers. Sometimes with guilt. Sometimes with nothing but the ache of knowing he had claimed them as his and still failed to keep them alive.
Today, he stood there with something new.
Four stones.
Not temporary markers.
Permanent.
Carved by his own hands.
The first two bore names the pack al
