Clara's white Audi curved through serpentine mountain roads at dawn, tires humming over asphalt that stitched earth to sky like celestial thread. On the passenger seat, fresh lilies bled pure against white petals—a bouquet for ghosts.
She climbed the cemetery steps, flowers crushed to her chest. Thirteen years had passed since the car crash that left her an orphan.
（The Windsors, once family friends, had never set foot here. Their absence was a shadow on the Tombstone.）
With meticulous care, she arranged the blossoms at the base of the twin monuments. From her coat pocket, she withdrew a linen handkerchief—its edges threadbare from decades of use—and began polishing the rain-streaked granite, as if wiping away time itself.
Stroke after stroke, until the stone gleamed like liquid night.
Twin photographs smiled from the polished surface: her mother's eyes crinkled with laughter, her father's gaze steady and warm. Beneath their images, an inscription carved in gold:
Beloved Daughter Clara Morgan
Twenty-four now, the girl who'd stood here trembling at eleven.
Her fingers traced the curve of her mother's photographed cheek. And then the dam broke.
Knees sinking into damp earth, Clara's tears fell like winter rain. Each drop splattered against the immaculate stone. She scrubbed at them frantically with her sleeve—Don't tarnish them, don't stain their memory—but the floodgates had opened.
A sob ripped through her throat, raw and guttural. No more stifled whimpers. Let the world hear her grief.
"I'm sorry," she choked into the silence. "The ones who hurt you... I still haven't found them. I've failed to honor your legacy."
Her voice fractured. "The Windsors tolerated me like stray furniture. Ethan always despised me."
A gust of wind whipped through the oaks, scattering fallen leaves like discarded secrets. "Why does no one want me? Why did you leave me alone in this world?"
Exhaustion eventually stilled her tears. She sat back on her heels, hollowed out but purged. The catharsis left her numb.
Life demands moving forward, her father's voice seemed to whisper on the breeze.
Clara swiped at her swollen eyes. Rising, she pressed a palm to each cold stone.
"Until next time."
······
Elsewhere on the hill, Julian Lorimer accompanied his mother Sophia to her grandfather's grave. The quiet was shattered by a woman's wails—raw, guttural, the sound of a soul scraping bottom.
"Some poor girl losing a loved one," Sophia clucked.
Julian frowned. That voice… familiar. "Wait here, Mom."
"Another fling?" Sophia arched a brow. Her son's escapades never reached home, so she turned a blind eye.
"Just curious." Julian jogged toward the sound, grateful to dodge her "when will you marry" lecture.
Julian Lorimer froze mid-step, transfixed. Clara Morgan—Hartwell's fiercely controlled secretary—curled like a broken sparrow against granite. He discreetly snapped a photo, the shutter click swallowed by her sobs.
"Clara?" His voice startled them both. "You walk quieter than a cat burglar, Lorimer."
"Visiting your parents?" He nodded at the tombstone.
"Just missing them."She avoided his gaze. "You?"
"My grandfather's death anniversary." Julian dropped his usual smirk, voice gentle. "Hartwell doesn't know you're here, does he?"
Before she could answer, a familiar voice pierced the silence: "Clara Morgan! Fancy meeting Death's waiting room!"
What cosmic joke placed so many familiar faces in a cemetery today?
Mia dashed over, tugging a tall man. Julian's eyes lit—until he saw Mia ignore him completely.
"Mia," Clara gestured at Mia's companion, "new recruit?"
Mia hooked her arm through the man's. "Daniel Kim. My partner."
"Clara Morgan, My colleague."
Daniel adjusted his wire-framed glasses—the picture of academic gentility. But his gaze snagged on Clara's tear-streaked face, lingering with fascination.
Julian snorted. Pathetic.
Mia noticed Clara's red eyes. "Daniel, could you go ahead? I need to talk to Clara."
After Daniel left—throwing one last leer at Clara—Julian stepped forward. "Ms. Su, you ignored me."
Mia offered glacial courtesy: "Mr. Lorimer. Apologies—girl emergency. Coffee another time?"
Julian advanced. "Define 'another time.' Tuesday? Four PM? The café beside Hartwell Tower where you avoid me each afternoon?"
Mia flushed. Clara intervened: "Stop terrorizing her, Julian." She dragged Mia toward the Audi. "We're leaving."
As the Audi peeled away, Julian texted Sebastian:
Found your sparrow at cemetery.
P.S. She cries like Renaissance art.
Three seconds later, his phone exploded:
Sebastian: TaXX Nightclub. 9PM.
Sebastian: Choose your coffin wood.
Julian laughed aloud, pocketing the device. Daniel's lecherous face still haunted him—a problem needing Hartwell-grade resolution.
He glanced back one last time at the Morgan headstones beneath twisted oaks—the dates 2010 gleaming like fresh blood.