I stared down at the tombstone. It was only a day old, but a spider was already working feverishly on its grim corner, determined to coat the dreary stone with webs to catch dewdrops in.
I considered the words on the grave. The description was quite on-point, if not a little ruthless.
And yet, he had been my father.
Was it right or cruel, I wondered, that this would be the last inscription of him?
Both, I decided. Yes, both.
Absent of any breeze, the autumn air was heavy with salt and memory that day.