Eleven crouched low before the weatherworn headstone, her fingers tracing the rough etchings of names now softened by time. The cold bite of late November hung in the air, sharp as a razor's edge, and frost clung to the edges of the stone like delicate lacework spun by winter's hand. Her breath came in pale clouds, dissolving into the gray stillness of the graveyard, a silent testament to her sorrow.
Behind her, Zeiss stood silent, his shadow stretching long over the frostbitten ground. He watched her, his coat pulled tight against the winter chill. The world around them was quiet but not peaceful — the kind of quiet that pressed in on all sides, brittle and unyielding like the frost-cracked earth beneath their feet.
She breathed out then placed the white single-stemmed rose beside the headstone. "I don't know what to say…" she muttered, but she knew the man behind her heard her.
