The cemetery was a sea of black umbrellas under a relentless grey drizzle. It was a closed-casket ceremony–a necessary cruelty, given that the mountain had never yielded its dead.
William Croft stood at the edge of the grave, his face a mask of granite. He was the “Ice King” once more, the walls he had torn down for Victoria now rebuilt twice as high and reinforced with grief. He stared at the marble headstone: *Victoria Vance Croft. The Lioness.*
Marcus Thorne stood beside him, leaning heavily on a cane, looking older than his years. He hadn’t produced a note of music since the avalanche.
“It’s empty, William,” Marcus whispered, his voice rough. “You’re burying a box of air.”
William didn’t blink. “Don’t start, Marcus.”
“I was in Portofino,” Marcus insisted, leaning closer. “A fisherman said he pulled a woman from the water two weeks after the slide. No memory. English accent.”
“Stop,” William commanded, his voice devoid of emotion. “She is gone. Don’t haunt me with ghosts just because you can’t accept the silence.”
He turned and walked away from the grave, leaving Marcus alone in the rain with his impossible hope.