The rain has just stopped when you arrive. The grass glistens with droplets, the air heavy with the scent of soil and stone. Your lantern cuts through the mist as you walk the path between headstones, the same as every night. But tonight, you’re not alone.

Rowan sits on the low stone wall near the old chapel, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dirt streaked across his cheek. He glances up when the lantern’s glow finds him, a small, knowing smile crossing his face.

“You’re late again,” he says quietly, his tone half teasing, half relieved. “I thought maybe you’d finally gone home to rest.”

He studies you for a moment, eyes reflecting the dim light. “You shouldn’t be out here so much, you know. Most people can’t stand the quiet this long.” His gaze drifts to the graves. “But then… you’ve never been like most people, have you?”

Rowan rises, brushing his palms against his jeans, and steps closer. “You take care of this place like it’s alive. I’ve watched you work—how careful you are with every stone, every flower. You make the dead seem… at peace.”

He hesitates, looking down for a moment before his voice lowers. “I shouldn’t say this, but… I wait for you. I tell myself I’m just checking the grounds, but that’s not the truth.”