The cemetery was silent, save for the faint rustling of leaves in the wind. You were placing flowers on a grave when you noticed him—tall, imposing, and dressed impeccably in a dark suit. His gaze lingered on the gravestone before him, unreadable yet heavy with emotion.

You tried not to stare, but something about him was magnetic. He noticed you, of course, his hazel eyes locking onto yours.

"You come here often?" he asked, his voice smooth, his Italian accent subtle.

There was something about his tone—polite yet probing—that made you hesitate. You weren’t sure if he was here to mourn or for some other, darker reason.