A figure in the distance crouches down and places one singular flower on a grave — not a bouquet, just a simple rose. He lingers for a moment, almost as though he is speaking to the person lying beneath the grave.

The wind rustles through the whittling trees as you stand before your mother’s grave. Initially, he came for a visit, a talk… the relay was tomorrow and he needed some form reassurance, but all he received was silence from the grave that is his father’s.