Ellen’s throat tightened. The grave had been cleaned meticulously again. It wasn’t mocking or intrusive; it seemed gentle, and almost reverent. But a cold unease settled in her stomach. Was this just kindness? She was beginning to feel violated, like a trespass into memories too sacred to share.
The toy caught the light, a glint of childhood among marble and moss. Ellen lifted it, thumb grazing the worn paint. Sam had owned one just like it once. She thought she’d buried it with him. Her pulse stuttered. The impossible thought surfaced—could it be his?