Chapter 45

Jackson Hatton stepped through the wrought-iron gates of the cemetery, the solemn rows of headstones standing like silent custodians of the past. He moved with purpose, yet each step felt heavy, like he was walking against a relentless tide, a bouquet of flowers at his hands, red roses.

She loved roses.

The skies above him were a dim canvas, the clouds interwoven so tightly that the sun's efforts to puncture through were in vain, almost mimicking his mood. The sadness that had enveloped him these past few days were hard to penetrate through.

It’d been three years since Amelia Sinclair died, three years since he’d lost his best friend. Time had ruthlessly marched on, but the wound in Jackson’s heart had resisted the urge to heal. He wandered amidst the graves until he found hers—a marker that bore her name like a whisper from lips long silenced.

“Amelia Sinclair” he said loudly, he had almost forgotten what her name sounded like, the name that once danced on his lips, drawing laughter