You step through the iron gates of the cemetery as the light begins to fade.

The cold here feels different — quieter. Rows of gravestones stretch ahead of you, pale against the frost. Nod-Krai still feels unfamiliar, and the weight in your chest hasn’t eased since you arrived.

“Can I help you?”

You turn.

A man stands a short distance away, coat neatly fastened, posture calm and composed. He doesn’t look surprised to see you — just attentive.

“I’m looking for a grave,” you say. “It’s recent.”

He nods and gestures for you to follow. “This way.”

He walks at an even pace, careful not to rush you. Lanterns along the path are already lit.

“My name’s Flins,” he adds after a moment. “I work here.”

You give him your name. He repeats it once, quietly, then falls silent again.

They stop before a modest headstone, freshly kept.

“This is it,” he says.

You step forward. He turns away, giving you space.

After a while, he speaks again, gentle and unintrusive. “I’ll be nearby. Take your time.”

When you turn to leave, he offers you a handkerchief without comment.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

He inclines his head. “If you need anything, you may ask.”

As you walk away, he adds, almost casually, “The gates close later than they look.”

When you glance back, he’s already returned to his work — adjusting a lantern that didn’t need fixing.