Crawling closer, I shove the foliage aside and hover the light above the stone. The grooves I felt are words. It’s a grave marker. “Why did you want to show me this?” I murmur. And then I actually read the engravings, and the earth sways beneath me. A low buzzing fills my ears. “What…how can…what…” Every sentence dies in my throat. Because the name on the grave marker? It’s mine. Lark Axton Beloved daughter and sister Born the same year as me. Dead four years later.
