Grave Words Nyt Crossword Novels & Stories

His breaths are cutting short to spare his insides the uncomfortable heat. "T-This should be a way in," he panted and was about to take a few steps to nowhere in particular when something beside him glowed; he stopped and looked at the direction to see an old, rusty lantern lamp placed on top of a nearby grave—the only grave which do not have a cross on it. His trembling legs unconsciously took him towards the beacon; before he could reach for it, his eyes drew down the grave stone—no name's been written. Perhaps, it's empty. Slowly, he took the lamp, carefully turned to his heel and went straight.

"Yes... I want vengeance." Seeing he had come to his senses, Uncle Zac pulled the silver cross pendant from his pocket and held it in front of Farrow's face. The cold silver glint stung Farrow's eyes. "Use your head, Farrow." "The M.E. just said Grace has been dead for at least forty-eight hours." "But just yesterday, Betty came to you with this cross, crying that Grace threw it in her face." "How does a dead woman show up on the street to throw her pendant at Betty?"

“What was her name?” They both went quiet. “Say something!” I yelled, breath hitching. My father finally spoke. “Her name was Gabriella. Gabriella Wade.” Gabriella. The name hit differently. It wasn’t familiar, but it felt familiar. “Where is she?” I asked. “Where is my mother buried?” Grace hesitated. I stepped closer, angry tears pouring. “I need to know where my mother’s grave is. Please.” Grace’s eyes welled up. “A cemetery… in Upper Manhattan. Evergreen Hills Memorial Park. Plot twenty-four. I—I visit sometimes…”

The cemetery held such a powerful mix of emotions—energy, sadness, and heaviness—that left me in awe. I moved the light over the area, revealing a towering tomb that dominated the back right corner. The moonlight cast eerie shadows, adding to the mystique. It was exactly where the star on the map had indicated. The name Gomez was carved into the highest point of the mausoleum in a font reminiscent of Old English. A small plaque on the side of the structure, covered in mineral buildup from years of weathering, displayed six names with middle initials.

My trembling bare feet brushed against the cold dew as I followed the path indicated on the back of the post-it note: Section 4, Row 12. ​I found it under the shade of a sprawling willow tree. A fresh, polished headstone of grey granite stood alone. A lump stuck in my throat and my lungs were burning as I ​saw two identical slabs of polished black granite standing side-by-side under the weeping willow. One bore the name Airra, the other bore the name… Alessandro. ​"No... no!" I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat and echoing off the silent monuments. ​I collapsed between the two graves as my trembling hands reached the carving of their names.

*Amber* I find myself in the graveyard behind the small church, venturing for the first time beyond the low stone wall. Each headstone is marked with a name and a gang logo, some bearing a few words as well. Too many read ‘Fell in the war,’ while others offer a personal farewell.

He did not kneel; he sat carefully, crossing his legs and pressing his face against the cold stone of her grave. The cemetery was small, and filled with uneven but neatly kept rows of headstones and tombs. Most of them looked old, aged by the unrelenting force of the wind and the rain and the sun, though there were a few newer stones dotted around, too. Violet’s was one of these, and her headstone was overflowing with wildflowers, tied in colourful ribbons and leant up against the words carved into the granite. Flowers covered the date at the bottom, but the rest was clear. It read: Violet Johnson

I ask. "You'll see. It's right up here." We turn down another aisle. The church is some sixty yards off, and a sea of headstones separate us. And the occasional angel or pillar reaching up into the air. Sean stops in front of two identical gravestones. Or, whatever it's called. Two marble squares with kneeling angels facing each other sit in the back of the graveyard. I look to see who's buried, and the air seems to freeze. Here lies, Evelyne Kelson

I scoff, thinking that death is a fitting punishment for someone as evil as the occupant of this grave. I continue walking, my legs trembling as I approach his grave. I pause when I see fresh flowers, a sign that she must've been here recently. I push the flowers aside and read the words, my heart aching: “HERE LIES JAMES JOHNSON, a friend and a brother.”