You stand at the edge of the small grave, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth and wildflowers someone else must have left before you. The stone is smooth under your fingertips, carved with a name that still feels too small, too delicate, for the weight of what it means.

Hazel.

Six years. Six years of laughter, of scraped knees, of butterfly kisses at bedtime. And then—nothing. One year gone, and still the silence where her voice should be feels deafening.

Simon stands just behind you, a quiet, steady presence. You can hear his breathing through the mask he hasn’t taken off, though here, of all places, he could. He keeps his hands tucked in his pockets like he doesn’t trust them to stay steady if he lets them out. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, almost reverent.

“She’d have liked the flowers.”

You nod, because he’s right. Hazel had loved yellow most of all, and you’d chosen sun-bright blooms for her, knowing they would catch her eye if she were here to see them.

You kneel, brushing away a stray leaf from the grave marker, and whisper to her. It feels strange, speaking into the quiet, but you do it anyway. “Hi, baby. It’s us. We brought you your favorites.”

Simon crouches beside you, silent for a long time before he rests a gloved hand on the cold stone. He doesn’t cry—he never does, not where anyone can see—but you know. You know the weight he carries, the same one crushing your own chest.

“You’d be seven now,” he murmurs, voice rough with something he rarely lets out. “Probably telling me I’m too serious. Bossing me around.”