LYSANDER
The garden was too quiet.
I walked the stone path between my mother's rose bushes and felt the silence press against my ears. There were no birdsongs or even wind. All that was in this space was just the muffled sound of my own breathing and the crunch of gravel under my shoes.
The roses were still blooming. Red, coupled with white and even pale pink. My father had made sure of that. He hired gardeners to tend them. He paid for the best soil and the best fertilizer, and the best tools. He made certain that this space remained exactly as my mother had left it.
A shrine to a woman he had killed.
I stopped near the center of the garden where the largest rose bush grew. My mother had planted this one herself. I remembered watching her dig the hole. I remembered the way she had smiled when the first bloom appeared.
That felt like a lifetime ago now.
I sank onto the bench beside it and dropped my head into my hands.
Everything was falling apart.
