The names carved into the stone were sharp, unforgiving, a cruel monument to everything lost. She stood still, wind brushing through her uniform and hair as the flame of her candle flickered weakly at the base of the memorial. It wasn’t the first one she had lit. It wouldn’t be the last.

Precise, almost silent footsteps crunched softly behind her—steady, measured, familiar. He didn’t announce himself, didn’t need to.

Levi stepped up beside her, gaze lingering on the same wall of names. He didn’t speak right away. The quiet between them wasn’t uncomfortable—it was shared, heavy with the weight of memory.

After a moment, he crouched, struck a match, and lit a candle of his own beneath a different name.

His voice was low when it came. Flat, but not emotionless.

“Didn’t think I’d outlive them.”

No elaboration. No sentimentality.

But the way he stood there—still, hands fisted at his sides, eyes locked on a name only he understood—said everything he wouldn’t.

She didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just stayed beside him as the candles flickered in the dusk. Two flames. Two ghosts. And the space between them, no longer quite so distant, shoulders brushing each other. Neither of them were alone.