Marcus pulled his sedan into the gravel parking area outside Blackwood Cemetery just after eight. Amelia and Ethan arrived only a few minutes later, each carrying far more questions than either cared to admit out loud.The cemetery was significantly older than most in the municipal district. Weathered, moss-covered headstones leaned slightly with age, and towering, gnarled oak trees cast long, sprawling shadows across the narrow, cracked stone pathways. Marcus carefully unfolded the yellowed scrap of paper Amelia had discovered inside her mother's address book. "Section D," he muttered, adjusting his collar against the damp wind. "Plot 47."They followed the half-hidden numbered markers deeper into the labyrinth of graves. "There," Ethan said, pointing toward a secluded corner.A modest, dark granite headstone stood entirely alone beneath the low-hanging branches of an ancient oak tree. The sparse inscription surprised them.Jonathan Mercer1958–1996There was no parting message. No
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