Every October: Part 2

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This October the rain fell harder than usual, turning the path into slick mud that clung to their shoes. Claire gripped Thomas’s arm tighter as they approached the gray headstone, the same one they had touched a hundred times before.

The black-and-white photo of their two boys still smiled out from behind the glass, untouched by the years. Water beaded on the surface, making the smiles look almost alive for a fleeting second.

Thomas knelt first, brushing wet leaves from the base of the stone with his bare hand. The leaves were the same deep brown, curled at the edges, smelling of earth and memory.

Claire stood a moment longer, letting the rain soak her coat. She never brought an umbrella anymore. It felt wrong to stay dry here.

“They’d be twenty-eight and twenty-six now,” Thomas said quietly, his voice almost lost in the downpour. He said it every year, like a quiet prayer.

Claire nodded. She placed two small toy cars on the grave—one red, one blue—just as she had the year before. The boys had loved those colors.

They sat on the wet bench nearby, shoulders touching. The cemetery was empty except for them and the steady sound of rain on stone and leaves.

Thomas pulled a folded letter from his pocket, the edges soft from years of carrying. He didn’t read it aloud. He never did. He simply held it between his palms as if the words inside could still reach them.

Claire watched a single leaf drift down and land on the photo. For a moment it looked like one of the boys had moved his hand.

She blinked the image away. Grief played tricks like that.

They stayed longer than usual. The sky grew darker, but neither wanted to leave. Something in the air felt different this year—thicker, heavier with unsaid things.

As they finally stood to go, Claire glanced back at the headstone. The rain had washed the glass clean. The boys’ smiles seemed wider now, almost knowing.

Thomas took her hand. “Next year?” he asked, the same question he always asked.

She squeezed his fingers. “Next year.”

But as they walked away, neither noticed the faint new mark on the stone—two small handprints pressed into the wet moss, already fading in the rain.