Too many years. Too many excuses.
It was never the right time. Never convenient. Never necessary.
But it was all bullshit, wasn’t it?
The headstone is the same as it always was, plain, worn at the edges, the carved letters softened by time. My mother never wanted anything fancy. Never liked to make a fuss. Just the basics, Ben, she’d say. No need to be dramatic.
I exhale sharply through my nose.
If only she could see me now, standing here like a fucking idiot, years too late, with nothing to say.
I drag a hand through my hair, fingers tightening at the back of my neck.
“Hey, mum.”
The words feel wrong. Stupid. Too small for the weight in my chest.
I glance down, and that’s when I see it.
Flowers.
Fresh ones.
Not the sad, store-bought kind, but real, careful arrangements. Small bundles of wildflowers and soft white snowdrops, wrapped in twine, placed neatly at the base of the headstone. Nestled among them, sweet peas.
I stare at them, my pulse slowing, the air around me shifting.
Someone’s been here.
Someone’s been coming here.
A lump forms in my throat, heavy and unexpected, my chest tightening as I kneel, brushing my fingers over the delicate petals.
“I was wondering when you’d show up.”
I turn.
Mr Hamilton stands a few feet away, hands in his coat pockets, his weathered face unreadable. The last time I saw him, I was seventeen. A kid drowning in grief, visiting this place like it was the only thing keeping me tethered.
I straighten, nodding once. “Mr Hamilton.”
He studies me for a long beat, then exhales. “Been a while.”
I nod again, not trusting myself to speak.
He steps closer, his eyes flicking down to the flowers. “Figured you’d want to know.”
I frown. “Know what?”
He tilts his head. “Who’s been bringing them.”
I already know.
My throat tightens. “Lila–”
Mr Hamilton doesn’t blink. “Every holiday, like clockwork.”
I inhale sharply through my nose, turning away, dragging ahand over my mouth. Lila.
