Date: March 21, 2009 – Grayhaven Cemetery
The wind carried the smell of wet earth and wilting lilies as the mourners thinned. The marble headstone still gleamed raw, its edges too sharp to belong to the past. Daniel Cole – Beloved Father and Friend. 1965–2009. Adrian stared at it as though memorizing every groove, as if sheer memory could pull his father back.
The last shovel of dirt had been thrown hours ago, yet Adrian hadn't moved. His black shoes were caked with mud, his shoulders stiff beneath the thin suit jacket he'd borrowed from his uncle. The cemetery was quiet now—only the whisper of bare branches and the occasional distant rumble of trucks from the highway reminded him that life outside this place went on.
A man's voice, low and steady, broke the stillness."You look just like him when he was your age. Same eyes. Same stubborn way of standing like you're daring the world to move first."
Adrian turned. The man was in his sixties, with silvered hair combed neatly back and a camel-colored overcoat that looked far too clean for the muddy ground. His gaze was calm but sharp, the kind of eyes that studied people the way others studied stock charts—methodically, searching for patterns.
"I'm Charles Whitmore," he said, extending a gloved hand. "Your father and I… we went back a long way."
Adrian hesitated before shaking it. The grip was firm, not ceremonial."I know who you are," Adrian said quietly. "You're the broker who—""Who tried to talk him out of those leveraged positions," Charles finished, voice steady but not defensive. "Yes. I failed him, Adrian. Not because I didn't see the danger, but because he wouldn't listen. He believed he could turn it around. Men like your father—proud, hard-working—don't like being told they can't fix something."
Adrian swallowed hard. Just like our last conversation… I told him he was wrong. He told me to use my brain for more than sarcasm. And then… he was gone.
Charles watched him for a moment, as though gauging whether to say more. "Listen, I don't expect you to like me. But I cared about your father. And I think… I think he worried about you more than about his debts."
Adrian's jaw tightened. "He never said that.""Fathers rarely do," Charles replied softly.
The wind cut colder. Somewhere across the cemetery, a car door slammed and an engine turned over. The last relatives were leaving. Charles reached into his coat and pulled out a simple white card.
"When you're ready to talk," he said, "call me. Not about your father. About you. About the kind of mind you have."
Adrian frowned. "What do you mean?""I've seen your school essays," Charles said. "Your father used to brag about that ridiculous memory of yours. He said you could recall pages of market data like most people remember song lyrics. He thought you could do something with it—something bigger than he ever could."
Adrian looked down at the card. No logo, just a number and a name. "Why do you care?""Because your father was my friend," Charles said simply. "And because talent without discipline burns out fast. Call me, Adrian. Don't waste what you've got."
The older man turned to leave, his shoes barely making a sound on the gravel path. Adrian watched him go, torn between anger and curiosity. The business card felt heavier than it should.
The sky had begun to dim, bruised purple at the horizon. Adrian slipped the card into his jacket pocket and walked back to his mother's car. His phone buzzed—another text from Kiara, checking if he'd eaten anything. He hadn't. His stomach was an empty knot, his head throbbing from too little sleep and too much thinking.
On the ride home, the road signs blurred past. Harrington – 12 miles. Princeton – 34 miles. Somewhere along that route lay the answer to a question he hadn't dared ask: What do I do now?
When they got home, Adrian went for a run. It was past eight, the air biting cold, the streets nearly empty. His lungs burned, but the rhythm of his feet against the pavement dulled the ache in his chest. He thought of Charles Whitmore, of his father's tired face the night before his heart gave out, of the conversation they'd never finish.
Back in his room, sweat-damp and shaking, Adrian stared at the card again. His father had always told him: Use your gift well. Don't waste it on shortcuts.
Adrian closed his eyes. He could still smell the wet earth from the cemetery, still feel the cold March wind on his face. One thought kept circling in his head:
If I'm going to do this… I need to learn everything. And I need to do it better than anyone else