The following day brought with it another task.
A young woman—elegant, beautiful, and tragically lifeless—was to be buried. She had drowned in her luxury car just outside the city. When her family arrived, they seemed more preoccupied with inheritance documents than with mourning her loss.
Thomas dug steadily, his body moving on autopilot. He shook his head at the injustice of it all—so much money, so much promise, and not a single tear shed in sincerity.
“Who is she?” she asked curiously.
“A woman. A young one,” he replied without looking up.
“Do you feel sad for her?”
“I feel sorrow for all of them,” Thomas replied softly. “The d.ead can’t transform their fate anymore.”
When the grave was ready, Thomas leaned on his shovel and exhaled deeply. The sky had begun to darken, and the wind carried a chill.
“Let’s go inside and warm up,” he said.
The child’s tiny fingers wrapped around his, and together they made their way to the guardhouse—a small, smoky place filled with the comforting aroma of old herbs and burnt wood. To Lily, it was a fortress, the safest place in her world.
