The path narrows and finally disappears as the man and Ben move deeper into the trees. It feels quiet in a different way here, as if even the wind slows down. Ben stops first. His nose points toward a small rise in the ground, hardly noticeable under the tangle of weeds.
The man steps closer and sees the edge of a stone, pale under dirt and moss. He kneels and brushes away the overgrowth. The letters are worn, most of the name lost to time. Only a single date remains, barely readable.
Ben sits beside him, sticking out his tongue, patient and still.
The man keeps clearing until the shape of the gravestone shows again. He does not know who rests here. He does not know who stood in this spot long ago, grieving the way he grieves now. But he feels the weight of it. A quiet ache that needs no explanation. A faint ache that cannot be explained.
“You were someone’s someone, too,” he whispers. He thought of his own someone. She never left his mind.
The forest stood by in silence.
He presses his hand against the stone for a moment, then stands. Ben nudges his leg, ready to go. The man looks once more at the grave, cleaned and visible again.
Then the man and Ben leave, still pressing on.
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