ATLAS' POV.
I stood in front of my father's grave as the last handful of dirt hit the coffin.
The crowd was slowly thinning — murmured prayers, hushed condolences, the sound of boots against the ground. I stood there longer than I should have, my hands buried in my pockets, eyes fixed on the grave.
Then I felt a hand on my shoulder, causing me to turn slightly.
“Come on, son,” Malcolm said quietly. “Let’s walk.”
I nodded once and followed.
We left the cemetery behind and walked down the narrow path leading toward the woods.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Malcolm had always been there — my father’s closest friend, my godfather, the man who’d taught me how to throw my first punch and how to stand tall even when the world tried to break me.
But right now, I couldn’t even look at h
