[Roran's POV]
The wind on the eastern ridge always bit harder than in the village. It carried the scent of salt from the distant coast and the damp rot of the jungle, but up here, between these two jagged stones, the air always felt still.
Like time had stopped the moment the shovels hit the dirt.
I stood there, my boots sinking into the soft earth I had paced over a thousand times. I did not say anything at first. I just looked at the smaller stone on the right.
Clara.
I reached out, my calloused thumb brushing the moss away from the inscription I had carved with a shaking hand seven years ago.
Seven years.
Had it really been that long?
I sank down onto the cold ground, my back against the larger stone, the bottle heavy in my hand. I pulled the cork with my teeth and spat it into the grass. Then I tilted the bottle, letting a long stream of amber liquid splash onto the earth in front of her grave. An old habit. A stupid one, probably. But it felt wrong not to.
