Frank’s marker sat beneath a low oak branch near the fence.

The smooth dark granite read Frank Miller, 1952 to 2024.

There was no verse carved under his name, just the polished blank stone.

I reached into my coat pocket and took out a single yellow mum I’d bought for four dollars at the gas station by the highway that morning.

I crouched and laid the stem flat across the cold stone base.

Claire stood two steps behind me, her hands folded over her purse.