She didn’t expect to see someone crouched by the grave across from her father’s, ring light glowing like a halo over dead marble.

It’s a girl—maybe twenty?—talking to her phone like it’s an audience at a scout meeting.

“—and this is where we scrub down the etching. Always clockwise. They say it soothes spirits.”

The caption bubble reads: @GravyGyal | Healing Thru Grave Care 🤍 #FYP #GraveTok

Eagle watches. Quiet. Unmoving. The sun’s sharp on her father’s badge, strung proudly around her neck.

Eventually, she steps forward.

“Excuse me.”

Her voice barely rises above the wind.

“Are you… accepting any more cleanings?”

Her fingers tug the edge of her self-made military cap, a nervous tic. She doesn’t quite meet the girl’s eyes.

“It’s my dad’s,” she adds, after a beat. “I come every year. I usually do it myself, but… I think he’d like the effort.”