𝑪𝑶𝑺𝑰𝑴𝑨 | 𝐓.𝐒 |

𝒊𝒗. 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍𝒔

The Blackshaw cemetery was small—quietly secluded behind the chapel and funeral home, surrounded by a wall of yew trees that looked like they'd been standing since the world began. Only a few dozen graves dotted the slope. Some marked with weather-worn stones, others just small wooden crosses.

Cosima slowed her steps, eyes tracing the ground as if recognizing each grave like an old acquaintance.

"These are mostly family," she murmured. "A few others. Those who didn't have anyone or didn't have enough."

Thomas looked around. "You buried strangers here?" as they walk in silence, they passed weathered crosses and stone angels, names half-covered in moss. The kind of quiet that wraps around you like a blanket you didn't know you needed.

She nodded, crouching to brush damp ivy from one of the older headstones. "My father did. Said if the Church turned them away, he wouldn't. He didn't believe death should come with conditions."

They reached Julian Blackshaw's grave.

The stone was modest. A dark slab, almost blending into the earth.

Julian Blackshaw
1863-1916

No cross. No epitaph.

Cosima sank to her knees, pushing aside a layer of wet leaves. Her black gloves soaked through instantly, but she didn't seem to feel it. Her hands moved slowly, reverently. Thomas stood beside her, holding his cap in both hands, head slightly bowed.

"He used to hum while he worked," she said after a long moment. "You could hear it through the walls. Always the same broken hymns. Always off-key."

Thomas's voice was low. "He made time for everyone. Even those who couldn't pay."

She gave a faint smile. "He said dignity shouldn't come with a price tag."

A crow cawed behind them. Water shook from the branches.

They stood in that quiet rain.

Thomas stepped forward and reached into his coat. He pulled out a small silver lighter-scuffed and dulled with age. He crouched and set it gently at the base of the grave, "He gave me this, once. Said I'd need fire more than he would. Never asked for it back."

Cosima didn't reach for it. Just looked.

"Then it's home now."

Silence passed between them. Not empty—just full of things that didn't need saying.

Then she stood, her coat clung wet to her sleeves. "He never wanted a grand monument. Said this land was enough. He bought it to keep the council off it. Didn't trust bureaucrats to look after the dead."

Thomas's eyes swept the hill. "It's peaceful."

"Only open it now for the ones who've got nowhere else," she said. "No family. No money. No name."

He glanced at her. "And who decides who gets in?"

She met his gaze. "I do."

A breath of understanding passed between them.

They walked in silence toward the lake, boots sinking softly into the damp grass. The world was hushed, as if even the trees held their breath. Rain clung to the edges of branches, fell in slow, resigned drops, and pooled around the roots of the old willow that bowed toward the water like a mourner in prayer.

Cosima pointed ahead, toward the tree's silver-hung limbs swaying in the breeze. "When I return to the earth," she said, voice low but steady, "I'll be buried there. Beneath the willow. Just close enough to hear the wind stir the lake."