The garden was too quiet.
Dylan sat on a wrought iron bench that had once been his mother's favorite, tucked beneath an arbor that used to bloom with pale pink roses. Now the petals were brown and curling, the vines brittle as ash. A fountain dripped lazily in the corner, half-choked with fallen leaves, the water murky with time. He let smoke curl from his lips, the cigarette trembling slightly between his fingers.
He'd quit years ago. Back when promises still meant something.
In his lap rested a letter. Creamy parchment, soft and thick, still untouched. His mother's handwriting scrawled across it in delicate ink. Gentle. Graceful. A ghost of her in every loop.
He hadn't opened it.
A voice cut through the dusk. "You're brooding again."
Dylan didn't turn. He knew the shape of that voice by heart. Ian leaned on the doorframe of the garden terrace, sharp suit crinkled from the day, tie askew, hair tousled from the wind.
