This was the fifteenth time Arlee Storm had come to the cemetery this week, and the ground seemed to recognize her.
Fog hung low over the graves, thin as breath and just as fleeting, curling around headstones as if the dead were exhaling memories into the night. Arlee walked the path without looking down. She knew every crack in the stone, every place where the earth dipped unnaturally, still adjusting to the weight it carried. Her boots slowed only when she reached the end of the row.
Her father lay there.
A month ago today, he had still been alive—calling her early in the mornings, reminding her to eat, laughing softly at his own forgotten jokes. Now his name was carved into granite, permanent and unforgiving. Arlee stood before it with her hands buried in her coat pockets, counting her breaths, because not counting felt dangerous. Like if she stopped, the grief might finally find a way to swallow her whole.
They said it was a hit-and-run.
They said there were no leads.
They said sometimes answers never come.
The words sat heavy in her mind, a sentence passed without trial
Her father had been her first love in the purest sense—the steady, unconditional kind. He had raised her alone, teaching her how to stand her ground without ever calling it strength. When the world felt too sharp, he had softened it. When she was afraid, he had stayed.
And then he hadn't.
A month ago, Arlee had a home. Now she lived in a place that smelled unfamiliar, with a woman who claimed her as a daughter and cried quietly at night behind closed doors. A mother who had appeared after years of absence, armed with DNA results, old photographs, and grainy videos—evidence stacked neatly in folders that proved truth but offered no comfort.
Why now? Arlee wondered, pressing her palm against the cold stone.
Why come back now, of all times?
Her father's last phone call returned to her like a bruise that never faded. His voice had been urgent, strained in a way she had never heard before. He told her to go with her mother. Said she would be safe with her.
Safe from what?
Arlee hadn't asked. She wished she had.
The air shifted.
At first, it was subtle—just a tightening in her chest, a quiet awareness prickling along her spine. She straightened slowly, her fingers curling against the edge of the tombstone. The fog seemed thicker now, the shadows between the graves stretching longer than they should have. Arlee focused on the sensation, on the feeling that something was watching her—not with malice, but with intent.
Recognition.
Her heart thudded painfully as she scanned the cemetery. The broken angel statue near the old oak looked no different than it had moments before. The iron gates stood still. Nothing moved.
Then a twig snapped.
Arlee flinched, breath catching, and turned sharply toward the sound.
A man emerged from between the rows, his silhouette broad and familiar. The groundskeeper. She had seen him before—early mornings, late evenings—always quiet, always distant. He raised a hand gently, as if not wanting to startle her.
"Didn't mean to scare you," he said. His voice was rough but kind. "I've seen you here a lot this week."
Arlee nodded, unsure what to say.
"Grief doesn't keep a schedule," he continued, shifting his weight. "But it does get lonely. Thought I'd check in. Make sure you're alright."
She studied his face, searching for something she couldn't name. He didn't feel like the presence she had sensed earlier. That awareness had been sharper, heavier. Still, his presence grounded her, tethering her back to the world of the living
"I'm fine," she lied softly.
He gave her a look that suggested he knew better but wouldn't press. "If you need company, I'll be around. Grounds don't mind being walked twice."
With that, he tipped his hat slightly and moved on, his footsteps fading into the fog.
The feeling lingered long after he was gone.
Arlee sank down beside her father's grave, exhaustion settling into her bones. The stone was cold beneath her back, but it was familiar, solid. Being here made the ache duller, quieter. She curled closer, resting her head against the base of the tombstone, breathing in damp earth and old roses.
Sleep found her without warning
She dreamed of warmth. Of fingers brushing gently through her hair, slow and careful, like someone afraid she might disappear if they touched too hard. The sensation was so real that she stirred, brow furrowing, lips parting to speak his name.
"Arlee."
Her eyes flew open.
Her mother knelt beside her, one hand still hovering near Arlee's hair, as if unsure whether she was allowed to touch her. The fog was thinning now, dawn bleeding softly into the sky.
"You scared me," her mother said quietly. "You shouldn't be out here alone."
Arlee sat up slowly, heart racing, the echo of that dream-touch still lingering. "I fell asleep," she said, as if that explained everything.
Her mother nodded. She didn't scold her. She didn't ask questions. Instead, she stood, walked to the grave, and placed a small bundle of fresh flowers at its base. White lilies. Simple. Respectful.
She said nothing else.
The drive home passed in silence. The road blurred past the window as Arlee watched the world wake up, feeling strangely disconnected from it all. Her mother's hands tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles pale, but she didn't speak. Neither did Arlee.
When they arrived, the house loomed quietly at the end of the street.
It felt familiar. And unbearably unfamiliar.
Arlee stepped inside and felt the absence immediately—the missing weight of her father's presence, the silence where his voice should have been. The house still held his things, his scent lingering faintly in the air, but he was not there
She stood in the doorway, heart heavy, knowing one truth with absolute certainty:
Whatever had begun at the cemetery had followed her home.