Marlowe
I visited my father's grave the following morning, alone, needing the particular clarity that only quiet, solitary conversation with his memory ever seemed to properly provide.
The headstone sat simple and weathered, considerably plainer than the legend everyone in this club had built around his name, and I settled onto the grass beside it with the small box of letters Wrench had eventually, gently insisted I keep for myself.
"I don't know what to do," I told him, out loud, feeling only slightly foolish talking to a stone that couldn't actually answer. "King proposed. I love him more than I've ever loved anything. And I still can't bring myself to pick a date, because some part of me is convinced that committing fully means fate gets to take it away, the same way it took you."
