A single carved letter stared back at them from the wall.
S.
Allison held the flashlight closer.
The beam trembled slightly in her hand.
Not because she was afraid of what the letter meant.
Because she already knew who had made it.
There was something about the angle of the curve.
The slight hesitation at the bottom.
The way the line pressed deeper into the stone toward the end.
It wasn't handwriting, exactly.
Not in the traditional sense.
But Allison had spent twenty-two years looking at notes her mother left on kitchen counters, birthday cards tucked beneath pillows, reminders written in the margins of books, and grocery lists that somehow always contained at least one sarcastic comment aimed at Adrian.
She knew her mother's hand.
Even carved into stone.
Her breath caught.
"Mom."
Adrian moved closer.
"What?"
Allison didn't answer.
She brushed another layer of damp dirt away.
The rough stone scraped beneath her glove.
Another letter slowly appeared.
A.
