I had bought a granite stone.

I had visited two quiet graves every single weekend.

“Beatrice,” I said, fighting to keep my voice level, “my son died seven years ago.”

Chapter 3 — The Boy

She stepped slowly aside from her front door, and a small child appeared behind her.

He looked about nine years old.

He was very thin, with dark hair cut unevenly, wearing an oversized gray shirt, holding an old faded backpack.

And the thing that struck me, the thing that frightened me more than anything, was that he was not crying, and he was not frightened.