The rain had started as a drizzle, soft and almost gentle, like the sky hesitated to interrupt the silence. Now, it poured steadily over the rows of dark umbrellas, the gray sky weeping along with the crowd that gathered around two side-by-side caskets.
Graham stood still, hands at his sides, water soaking through his black suit. He didn't move to cover himself. He just stared at the polished wood as if it might open, as if this were all some horrible mistake.
His face was streaked with rain and tears—neither trying to hide the other. His dark hair, thick and a little messy from the wind, clung to his forehead. He was tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of handsome that came without effort. But today, there was no trace of the usual calm in his deep brown eyes. Only pain. The quiet, hollow kind that doesn't make a sound but fills you to the brim.
People had said kind things all day—"Such a tragedy," "They were too young," "Your parents were good people." But none of it mattered. Nothing anyone said could bring them back. Not his dad's laugh. Not his mom's hugs. Just memories now, flickering in the back of his mind like old film reels: backyard barbecues, movie nights, his mom dancing while cooking, his dad's warm voice saying, "I'm proud of you, son."
He clenched his jaw, tears welling again. It wasn't fair.
Behind him, soft footsteps crunched the wet grass. A woman stepped forward, clutching a folded black umbrella. She was in her thirties, elegant, with kind eyes and a voice that matched the weather—low, gentle, almost sad.
"I'm so sorry, Graham," she said.
He turned slowly, trying to place her through the haze of grief. She stepped closer and reached out, brushing his arm. "Janet," he muttered softly, unsure of what to say. Words felt too small for the ache in his chest.
"They loved you so much," she added, her voice cracking. "She used to talk about you every time we spoke."
Graham looked away, swallowing hard.
"I don't have anyone left," he murmured.
Janet took a breath. "You're not alone, Graham. Not anymore."
The crowd thinned as the last handful of mourners drifted away, umbrellas bobbing toward their cars like dark flowers in the rain. Quiet settled over the cemetery, broken only by the soft hiss of rain on leaves and the distant roll of thunder.
Graham stayed.
He lowered himself onto the damp grass, not caring about the wet that soaked through his pants. He sat cross-legged in front of the twin graves, staring at the fresh mounds of earth like they might shift, like something might rise from them and say it was all just a bad dream.
He didn't cry now. The tears had dried up for the moment, replaced by a numb heaviness that sat on his chest like a stone. His fingers dug into the soil beside him, knuckles white.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice rough. "I should've been there."
He thought about that morning—the missed calls, the rushed text from his mom that just said "Love you." The kind of message you don't realize is the last until it's already too late.
A gust of wind swept through the trees, carrying the scent of rain and wet earth. Graham looked up at the two gravestones, simple and new, and for the first time in hours, he let silence take over. No thoughts. No anger. Just the ache.
Janet stood a short distance behind him, her umbrella still open but lowered now, resting gently against her shoulder. She didn't say a word. She didn't try to pull him away or tell him it was time to go. She understood this was a moment that belonged to him and no one else.
So she waited.
And Graham, drenched, broken, and barely breathing through the hurt, sat alone with the only people who had ever truly known him—buried beneath the earth.
The rain had softened to a light mist, drifting through the trees like breath. Graham still sat on the wet grass, the graves in front of him, his palms pressed into the earth like he was trying to feel some final warmth beneath the soil.
Janet waited a few steps behind, silent, her umbrella now hanging loosely at her side. She hadn't moved in nearly half an hour.
Finally, Graham exhaled—a long, tired breath that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his lungs. He looked at the gravestones one last time, reading their names silently.
"Dad… Mom…" he whispered. "I didn't get to say goodbye."
His voice cracked on the last word, but no tears came. He had none left.
"I miss you already," he added, eyes fixed on the stone. "And I promise… I'll figure this out. Somehow."
He rose slowly, brushing mud and grass from his clothes. For a moment, he stood in silence, the kind that didn't need words. Then, barely loud enough for Janet to hear, he said, "I'm ready to go home now."
Janet gave a small nod, stepping beside him but not touching him. She let him walk ahead, offering him the dignity of his space.
Graham paused once more beside the graves and gave the smallest of nods—like a bow, or a final goodbye. Then he turned and followed Janet to the car.
The rain had slowed by the time they reached the car. Graham didn't say much—didn't need to. Janet opened the passenger door and waited until he slid in before quietly circling around to the driver's side.
The drive was silent, except for the occasional hum of tires over wet pavement and the soft murmur of the heater kicking in. Janet glanced at him a few times, her expression gentle, but she didn't force conversation. She'd already seen enough to know words wouldn't fix anything.
"I know it doesn't feel real yet," she said softly, hands steady on the wheel. "But when it does… I'll be here, okay?"
Graham didn't respond. He wasn't crying anymore. He just stared out the window, watching the blurred trees pass like ghosts. His face was unreadable—too still for someone so young.
When they pulled into the driveway of Janet's house, two cars were already there. One black. One silver. Graham didn't need to ask. He knew who they belonged to.
Inside, the air smelled like old wood, coffee, and tension. In the living room, two couples sat on opposite ends of the couch, mid-discussion. His uncle from his father's side, a heavyset man with a stern look and stiff posture, stood as Graham entered. His aunt, his mother's sister, gave him a tight, awkward smile.
"Graham," the uncle said with a nod, like this was some kind of business meeting.
Janet placed a hand on Graham's back, her voice calm but firm. "Let's not overwhelm him. He's been through enough."
"We're just trying to do what's best," his aunt said quickly. "He could come stay with us in the suburbs. It's stable. Quiet. A good environment."
"And we have room too," his other aunt added. "He'd be around family."
Janet stepped forward. "With all due respect, I've known Graham since he was a baby. His mother was my best friend. And I've already spoken to social services—I'm prepared to take care of him. He won't want for anything."
Everyone looked at Graham, waiting for his input.
But he had none to give.
He stood there for a second, his face unreadable, then turned and climbed the stairs without a word. The hardwood creaked under his steps. He didn't look back.
He shut the door and collapsed onto the bed. No ceremony. No control. Just hit the mattress and let the silence cave in.
And this time, he cried again.
The kind of crying that no one sees. The kind that shakes your whole body even when you're trying to stay quiet. The kind that drains something from you that may never come back.