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The Fortress at the Graveside
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“You always did look uncomfortable in those,” she continued, her voice pitched just low enough to feel intimate, just loud enough to wound. “That uniform makes you look carved out of wood. No wonder Darren preferred my softness.”
Behind her, I caught the reflection of movement in the glossy surface of the hearse window.
Darren.
My ex-fiancé.
He stood near the guest book, pen in hand, signing his name with exaggerated care. The pen was expensive. Flashy. The kind of object meant to be noticed. He wore a silk tie and a faint smirk, the expression of a man who believed time had been kind to him.
When he glanced up and met my eyes, his look wasn’t remorseful.
It was pitying.
