-Reed.
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I didn't know where else to go.
After the door clicked shut and Rowan's presence dissolved from the room, I just stood there for what felt like an hour. The envelope sat on the console table like a dare, like a ghost folded into paper and ink. I didn't touch it. I couldn't.
So instead, I grabbed my coat and walked out. No plan. Just motion.
The cemetery was quiet this time of day. The kind of quiet that hums behind your ears and makes you wonder if you're the one being too loud just by breathing. It was clean, like everything else that belonged to rich people who had the luxury of dying in peace. Marble everywhere. Trees trimmed to look mournful on purpose. Even the damn wind felt curated.
David's family plot sat higher up on the slope, where sunlight hit at the right hour and birdsong wasn't interrupted by passing cars. My grandmother wasn't far from it. Just around the bend, under a tree that always seemed to bloom out of season.
I stopped in front of her grave and stared down at the black stone with her name etched in gold. A tiny silver plaque sat at the base, right above the embedded QR code.
Yes. A QR code. Because God forbid someone just remembered you the old way—with flowers and silence and a memory that lives in the gut.
I scanned it anyway.
A crisp webpage opened on my phone. Her obituary. Photos. A slideshow with cheap music. A "Leave a memory" button. And below that, links to share it. Facebook, Instagram, whatever.
I laughed.
Actually laughed, out loud, the sound too sharp against the still air.
Capitalism really said: not even the dead get to be left alone.
I looked down at her headstone again and shoved my hands deep into my coat pockets.
"Hey, Nana," I murmured, my throat tightening a little. "Don't worry. You've been digitized. You're fully optimized for the afterlife."
I sank down onto the bench beside her plot and let the silence settle for a while.
"I thought about you, you know," I said. "When Rowan told me we had to go. You were the first thing I thought about. Oh and by the way, you're late for the plot, but his name wasn't Lucien, it's Rowan."
I paused. The wind moved a little.
"There's this trend online," I went on, quietly, "where people cremate their loved ones and make them into rings. Or necklaces. Or keychains. Ash jewelry. Like souvenirs from death."
I shook my head.
"I almost wished I'd done that. If I had, maybe I could've taken you with me. Smuggled you across a border like something sacred tucked into a chain."
A bitter smile pulled at my lips, but it didn't last.
"That's cruel, though. Isn't it?" I whispered. "Human bodies aren't souvenirs. They're shuttles. They carry us around until we've run out of time. They hold all the bruises, the warmth, the decay. They deserve to rest. But this could be just me, just how my mind works. I don't want to yuck someone's yum anyway."
I looked down at my hands. Pale. Still. Cold.
"And you… you deserve to stay here. Not melted down and worn like a fucking accessory."
I let the silence stretch again.
A few rows away, a gardener raked leaves without looking up. Somewhere farther off, a crow shrieked once, like it was laughing at the whole thing.
I sat there with her for a while. Long enough to forget how long. Long enough for the numbness to start tasting like resolve.
I wasn't ready to leave. But I also wasn't sure I could stay.
The wind shifted again, colder this time. Or maybe I'd just stopped pretending I wasn't freezing.
I stared at her name until the letters blurred. Not from weather or time—but from my own eyes, burning in that slow, aching way they do when you try not to fall apart but the body's already made up its mind.
"I don't know what to do," I whispered.
It came out rough. Barely air. The kind of truth that doesn't need to be shouted to hurt.
"I don't—" My voice broke, and that was it.
The crack had been coming, slow and inevitable, but now it opened wide. My shoulders curled in like I was trying to fold into myself. Like I could disappear between the words on her stone if I pressed hard enough.
Tears slid down without warning, without drama. Not sobs—just… release.
A soft unraveling. The kind that creeps in after days of holding yourself together with threadbare resolve.
"I can't leave you here," I said, voice shaking. "I know you're gone, I know, but I can't walk away from this ground like it doesn't mean anything. Like you didn't build my entire life in that tiny kitchen and those broken evenings and every word you said that nobody else would've thought twice to say."
My chest ached. Not metaphorically. Physically. Like grief had made a fist and planted it right beneath my sternum.
"He wants me to go," I whispered. "He wants me to run because it's the smart thing to do. Because he's scared. And maybe I should be too."
I wiped my face with the back of my sleeve, but more tears followed.
"What do I do?" My voice cracked wide open now. "Tell me what to do, please—just one more time. Just this once."
I looked at her stone like it might open and speak. Like she might reach out from underneath and hand me a direction wrapped in warmth and certainty.
But the wind didn't shift.
The trees didn't move.
The ground said nothing.
And maybe that's what made it hurt the most.
The tears didn't stop.
They just kept falling, soft and steady like rain that's already soaked the ground but refuses to let up. My throat ached. My chest felt carved open. My hands curled uselessly in my lap, the skin chilled and damp from wiping my face too many times.
I looked at the stone again. At her name—each letter a weight. Each date a wall I couldn't reach through.
"Grandma," I whispered, voice raw, "this' your cue to give me a sign."
I waited.
I stared at the sky, then at the ground, then at the edges of her grave like something might flicker. A gust of wind. A bird landing. A sudden warmth that meant something.
But nothing happened.
No light broke through the clouds. No knowing breeze. No whisper of intuition crawling up my spine.
Just stillness. Just the cold. Just me.
I let out a shaky laugh, one of those breathless, disbelieving ones that cracked at the edges and didn't have the strength to finish.
I wiped my face again, slower this time.
"Well," I muttered, smiling bitterly, "you really are gone, aren't you?"
And it was funny. Because until that moment, some small, ridiculous part of me had still been pretending she wasn't. Like maybe she was just in another room, just sleeping deeper than usual, just busy being her usual stubborn self somewhere behind the veil.
But no.
She was gone.
And the silence was the only honest thing left between us.
Eventually, the tears slowed.
Not because I had stopped hurting—grief doesn't care about timelines—but because there was simply nothing left to spill. Just the sting in my eyes and the tightness behind them, the kind that stays with you long after the crying is done.
I ran my sleeve beneath my nose, cleared my throat, and exhaled.
Then, slowly, I stood.
My knees cracked a little from sitting too long in the cold, and the back of my jeans were damp from the marble bench, but I didn't care. I brushed the dirt off my palms, looked down at her grave one last time, and gave a small, tired nod.
There was no grand epiphany.
No flash of light or ghostly whisper or cinematic moment that rearranged the sky.
Just… silence. And choice.
And I knew—if I wanted to keep breathing, if I wanted to keep living, I already knew what I had to do.
In the quiet math of what's left, Rowan was the only one still standing with his hand out.
He was the last person on Earth who knew me the way she had—who looked at me like I was still salvageable. Still worth something.
And yet… part of me wanted to stay.
I could stay. Start over. Meet new people. Get a job, rent a shitty little place with uneven tiles and overpriced utilities. Go for walks. Pretend all of this—Rowan, the schemes, the money, the closeness, the love—had been some strange, fleeting detour.
I could bury it like a fever dream.
And it wasn't impossible. People do it all the time. Reinvent. Rebuild.
Forget.
And honestly… if they had wanted me dead, they would've already come. I've been here. I've been visible. If Sandro wanted to erase me, I'd be gone.
So maybe… maybe it's safe. Maybe it's over.
Maybe I can stay and forget everything beautiful that ever happened.
I closed my eyes, just for a moment. And in the darkness, I could still feel the shape of Rowan's kiss lingering on my mouth.
I could still hear him say, "Think it through."
And I was.
God help me, I was.
-Rowan.
The plane touched down in Stuttgart just past eight in the morning.
It was one of those landings where you feel the weight of the aircraft before you register the ground—where gravity settles heavier in your bones than it should. I sat still as the rest of the passengers began shuffling out, retrieving bags, stretching limbs like they'd just escaped something.
I didn't move.
Not until the cabin was almost empty.
Outside the gate, the terminal buzzed with that clean, quiet European efficiency—polite announcements in German and English, travelers wheeling sleek luggage, a smell of strong coffee cutting through sterile air.
I headed straight for the kiosk near baggage claim, bought a SIM card with cash, and ducked into a restroom tucked behind a currency exchange booth.
Inside, it was silent, except for the low hum of overhead lights and the occasional echo of footsteps from other travelers coming and going.
I chose the farthest sink. Rolled up my sleeves. Turned the faucet on cold.
The water hit my hands like a jolt. Sharp. Grounding.
I cupped some in my palms, leaned down, and splashed my face—once, twice, again—until the sting of sleepless hours and recycled air dulled into something bearable.
The man in the mirror looked like a composite sketch. Hair out of place. Eyes slightly bloodshot. A face that didn't belong to anyone in particular, and that was the point. That's why the lenses in my glasses were non-prescription. Why my coat was long enough to change the shape of my walk.
Everything had been calculated to erase me.
But behind all of that camouflage was still me. And under the weight of it all, the only thought that kept surfacing was: Has he made up his mind yet?
I dried my face, pressed my palms to the cold marble counter, and stared down at the sink like it might tell me something the mirror wouldn't.
Then I straightened.
No shaking.
No trembling.
Not yet.
I still had a train to catch.
And a man to wait for.
The platform at Stuttgart Hauptbahnhof was glassy with morning condensation, steel and stone and that faint scent of burnt espresso drifting from a kiosk that no one looked at long enough to remember.
I boarded the train like a man on a mission—casual in posture, rehearsed in movement. One bag. No eye contact. Nothing that made me look like I was running, even if every part of me was.
Car seven, window seat.
I sat down, placed my coat beside me, and stared at my reflection in the double-paned glass as the train began to roll out of the station. The city passed in smeared shapes—buildings, streetlamps, an old man walking his dog, a teenager yawning into her phone. Life, oblivious. People unaware that somewhere else, someone's entire foundation had been ripped out from under them.
That someone was me.
The train rocked forward into rhythm, metal gliding over metal like a whisper through teeth. I opened the SIM card package, slid it into the burner phone, and watched the signal bars flicker to life. A new number blinked at me from the welcome message. Blank. Untethered. I hadn't sent it to Reed. Couldn't risk it. But I kept checking the screen anyway—out of habit, out of hope, out of something that wasn't entirely logical anymore.
I kept the phone screen angled toward the window, just in case. As if that would change anything. As if hope could be refreshed like an app.
The overhead speakers mumbled station names in German and French as we crossed deeper into Switzerland. I traced each syllable in my head, letting them roll through me like prayer beads—deliberate, silent, useless.
I thought about Delémont.
About the station there—small, nondescript, built like a footnote in a country that didn't need to explain itself. I'd been once. Years ago. It was the kind of place where no one looked twice at strangers. Exactly what we needed.
I tried to picture him stepping off the train. Tried to imagine what I'd say if he did.
But the truth was—there was nothing left to say.
I'd already given him everything. The plan. The choice. The time.
Now all I could do was wait.
And hope that the man I loved would choose me back.
Delémont was quieter than I remembered.
The station was modest—two platforms, a narrow overpass, and signage that blended too easily into the grey of the sky. There were no long announcements, no rush of crowds. Just the soft murmur of movement, like the town itself had agreed not to speak louder than necessary.
I stepped off the train, one hand gripping the strap of my bag, the other tucked in my coat pocket around the burner phone. My breath curled in front of me in thin, fleeting clouds. The air was colder here.
I looked left.
Nothing.
Then right.
A couple walking a golden retriever. A man lighting a cigarette under the awning. Two teenagers sharing a pair of headphones.
But not him.
I scanned the benches. The waiting area. The empty coffee stand with its closed shutters and outdated poster curling at the edges.
Still no sign of him.
I walked the length of the platform slowly, deliberately, trying not to look like I was searching—but my eyes caught on every figure with dark hair, every flash of movement, every coat that even vaguely resembled his.
Each time, I felt my chest twitch. And each time, it wasn't him.
I stopped at the far end of the platform, where the overpass led toward the exit and the small street beyond. I stood there for a while. Watching. Waiting. Pretending like I wasn't counting the people that passed.
It had been hours since I left Stuttgart. Enough time for him to get here, if he'd chosen to. If he'd left at all.
I pulled out my phone.
Nothing.
No messages. No calls. Just the sterile welcome text from the Swiss network and the number that meant nothing to anyone unless I gave it life.
The sun sat low now, blurred behind clouds. The train behind me exhaled softly, as if mocking me for expecting anything different.
Still no Reed.
Still no reason to believe he was coming.