While she wanders around the outer edges of the graveyard, thinking about the boy, and thinking about ways to stop thinking about him, her grandfather is alone by a graveside, on his knees. He looks like a man mourning a loss so great it has punctured his heart and deflated him. A blue glow fades at his fingertips. Barely any sleep in four days, no recollection of when his last meal was, and he can’t remember the sigils he must hold in his mind, and he can’t concentrate on the notes he must hit, because he’s empty.
Stephanie Parsons, 1964–1999 rests here, but she won’t be restful much longer. She’s next, in fact, and Granddad can’t stop it alone.
There’s movement down there. Faint knocking.
He would cry if he had the energy.