The graveyard was quiet in the way only graveyards know how to be—too quiet, as if the very earth had stopped breathing out of respect. Or guilt. The wind moved through the leafless trees like a whisper too afraid to be heard, dragging dried leaves across cracked stone paths and old, iron gates left slightly ajar.
The late afternoon sun filtered weakly through clouds the color of ash, casting everything in a dull, grey hue. Shadows stretched long and solemn. Arthur walked through it like a ghost who hadn't realized he'd died. He was limping slightly, his left foot dragging just a little with every step.
