A gentleman named Claude sought peace there too.
He didn’t like heights, so he’d always sit on a park bench below, writing his sonnets.
One Saturday, Claude wasn’t there, so Luna searched all over the graveyard, until she found him weeping by a cracked tombstone.
“Anniversaries are always hard,” he breathed, forcing a smile.
Luna examined the time-worn inscription.
Claude Arthur Augustin. Poet. Fell from a building. 1835.