“It’s okay,” she said, not moving either.
We stared at each other.
One of us needed to step back. To break this moment before it became something we couldn’t take back.
I forced myself to drop my hands, to step away. “I think... I think there’s one more spot you should see.”
Her face was flushed. “Okay.”
We walked back to the truck in silence, the air between us thick with everything we weren’t saying. Everything we both wanted but wouldn’t let ourselves have. Or at least, what I thought she wanted. There was still every possibility that this was all in my head.
The final location was a meadow on a hill, wildflowers swaying in the breeze. It was beautiful and pastoral and exactly the kind of place engagement photos were made for.
As we approached, Leigh noticed the old cemetery adjacent to the meadow.
“Wait.” She turned to me. “Can we stop there for a second?”
I glanced at the cemetery gates. “You want to go in?”
“The light is incredible. And those old trees...” She gestured to the massive oaks that shaded the old headstones. “It could make for some really beautiful atmospheric shots. If that’s not too weird?”
“No, it’s... actually a lot of couples do use the garden part for photos. The historical society maintains it. It’s pretty.”
“Do you mind? I know it’s not for everyone.”
I thought about my grandparents’ graves, about how many times I’d stood there feeling utterly alone. About how strange it might be to share that space with her.
“I don’t mind,” I said quietly.
We parked and walked through the gates. Leigh was respectful, her camera lowered as she took in the space. The late afternoon sun slanted through the trees, casting long shadows across weathered stone markers.
She began photographing carefully, capturing the light and shadow, the way nature had reclaimed some of the older sections. It was artistic, not morbid. Beautiful in a melancholy way.
I watched her work, appreciating how she saw beauty everywhere. How she could find meaning in places others might overlook.
Then she stopped walking.
I followed her gaze to the two headstones she’d paused before: “James and Margaret Moore. 1943-2018, 1945-2019.”
My grandparents.
She immediately lowered her camera, turning to me. “Oh. I’m so sorry, I didn’t know… we can leave…”
“No, it’s okay. Really.” I moved to stand beside her. “They’d probably love knowing someone thought this place was beautiful.”
She studied me for a moment, then asked softly, “Tell me about them?”
No one had asked me that in a long time. The brothers knew the story, knew my grandparents had raised me. But no one had asked me to share memories in years.
“They raised me after my dad died. I was seven.”
“That must have been so hard.”
“They made it easier. They always made me feel like I belonged. Like I was their actual grandson, not just the kid they took in because they had to.”
“You were alone before that?”
The question opened something in my chest. “My mom... wasn’t in the picture. Dad did his best but there was never enough. Money was always tight, but we made the best of it, you know? We were happy. Then after the accident, my grandparents stepped up and tried to give me some form of that as well.”
