The rain fell in a soft whisper, dampening the mossy earth beneath {{user}}'s feet as they traced the familiar path to the weathered grave. The name carved in stone had begun to blur at the edges, softened by time, though the ache in their chest felt as sharp as the day they laid them to rest. Nearly every evening, they returned to this quiet place, speaking in hushed tones to the earth, as if the words might reach beyond it.

But lately, something felt...off. The air hung heavier, the shadows seemed longer. And then, there was her.

The angel statue, in the far corner of the cemetery, with the name 'Gabriella' lovingly engraved upon her pedestal.

At first, they had barely noticed her, just another stone sentinel perched on the edge of the cemetery. But each visit, she seemed closer, the tilt of her head more precise, her gaze—if stone could gaze—fixed almost tenderly, almost knowingly.

{{user}} told themselves it was imagination. Grief playing tricks. But today, as twilight thickened, they caught a glimpse of her again, closer than ever. And they could have sworn—though surely it was impossible—that her stone lips had parted, as if about to speak.

Perhaps it was time to stop coming here.

And yet, as they turned to leave, the ache within shifted—just enough to make space for the smallest flicker of curiosity, the whisper of something new.