Chapter 117
No dreams, just rain. He’d often mused, in recent days, that rain is forgiveness. A tiny piece of heaven falling to the earth.
He sat before the grave, breathing in and out. Thumbing the photograph of Killian in his white T-shirt and black jeans, Sander in his pale blue jeans and flannel button-up, green with pale stripes of blue and yellow.
He would linger here for some time, he knew.
He turned his gaze to the sky again. It would probably start to rain soon.
Not yet. But soon.
And in the very back of his mind, somewhere in the murky corners Sander seldom visited, it felt as though the truth had always shadowed him, ever since he’d lost his best friend one Christmas Eve over twenty years ago.
A tattered figure moved from tree to tree, always edging closer, luring him in: Turn around and follow me, come away into the darkness.
Into the unknown, with its unfamiliar paths.