That evening, she slipped into the cemetery just before closing. The caretaker gave her a polite nod, unaware of the device hidden inside her purse. When the sun dipped, Ellen crouched by the headstone, tucking the camera into a planter beside the flowers, its lens angled toward the grave.
She tested it once, the tiny red light blinking faintly in the dark. Recording the place where her son rested felt invasive, but she couldn’t bear another unanswered visit. “If it’s David,” she murmured, brushing dust from the stone, “I’ll finally have proof.” The wind answered with a hollow sigh.