The gravel path crunched beneath their feet as they stepped into the cemetery. A soft breeze rustled through the rows of old trees, their leaves whispering quietly in the morning stillness. Unlike public cemeteries, this one had an air of solemn exclusivity. High hedges enclosed the estate, trimmed and polished, with a wrought iron gate that bore the Ford family crest. It was silent here, save for the rustle of nature and the occasional distant chirp of a bird. The air carried the cool, earthy scent of stone and dew.
Leonard walked ahead, hands in his pockets, dressed in black from head to toe. Each step he took felt heavier than the last, as though time itself was wrapping tighter around his shoulders.
It had been years.
Years since he last stood on this path. Years since the funeral. And yet, the moment he crossed through the gates, it all came rushing back in color and sound.
The mournful trumpet notes.
The sea of black suits.
The scent of lilies mixed with rain.
