The Widower Saw a Boy Crying at His Mother’s Grave—He Stopped Curiously to Ask for Help… and Discovered a Horrifying Truth
Prologue: Rain on Marble
The morning was the color of ash. A thin rain stitched the air above the cemetery, beading on cold marble and soaking the edges of wilted wreaths. Mist pooled between rows of headstones like breath held too long.
At the far end, a small boy knelt alone. Seven years old, too slight for his hand-me-down coat, cheeks slick with quiet tears. He pressed his face to the stone as if it could answer him back.
