Chapter 11: Graves, Ghosts, and Glasses of Truth.

Saturday mornings were never gloomy, but this one covered itself in grey clouds and a chill that clung to the very bones. The kind of morning that told you not to hope for sun. The kind of morning that made memories and heart feel heavier.

In the quiet stillness of his mansion, Ethan Thompson stood in the center of the living room, frozen in front of the old fireplace. His eyes were fixed on a photo: a younger version of himself and Liam wrapped tightly in the embrace of a beautiful woman. Their mother. Margaret Thompson. Her smile, frozen in that moment, was brighter than the soft flames that once crackled in the fireplace mantel.

The photo was cracked at the edges. The memory, not so much.

From the open kitchen space, Royce leaned against the counter with a glass of orange juice in hand, silently observing Ethan like an old general watching a young soldier lose a battle with ghosts. His arms were crossed, his expression unreadable, though a sigh was already building in his chest.

"You really gon' do this today too?" Royce finally muttered, breaking the silence like a stone against a snail shell.

Ethan didn't answer. His jaw tensed.

Royce pushed off the counter, walked closer, and stood beside him. "It's her death anniversary. Again. And here you are… brooding. Again."

"Drop it."

"Nah, son. I ain't droppin' nothin'. You think sittin' here, starin' at her picture like it's gon' change the past, does any good? That woman raised you. She gave everything, and you can't even go put a flower on her grave?"

Ethan's voice was low. "I don't need to stand over dirt to honor her."

Royce chuckled bitterly, sipping his juice. "That's the dumbest poetic nonsense I ever heard. She's not just in the dirt, she's in your story. And you out here skippin' chapters."

Ethan finally looked at him. "I don't do graves."

Royce raised an eyebrow. "You do guilt, though. And silence. Like a damn ghost floatin' around in this house. You ain't foolin' nobody."

There was a long pause between them. Ethan's eyes dropped to the floor. Royce softened, just a little.

"Look," Royce continued, voice quieter and softer, "I know it hurts. I know it's messy. But don't let grief make you a coward. Just go. Say something. Weed the grass, lay the flowers. She'd want that."

Ethan exhaled. His shoulders dropped slightly. "You finished preaching?"

Royce grinned, stepping back. "I got sermons for days, baby boy. But I'm done for now."

Ethan walked off without another word.

---

Across the city, Liam Thompson had already made his way out of town, past the cracked asphalt and weather-worn signs leading to Maple Ridge Cemetery.

He hated cemeteries. Always had.

But today wasn't about him.

He parked his car just outside the rusted black gates, grabbed a bouquet from the passenger seat, and stepped into the silent field of stone. A breeze carried dust and the faint scent of damp grass. The clouds above hung like a low ceiling, smothering the world in shadow.

He knew exactly where to go. He didn't need to look. His feet knew the path.

Margaret Thompson.

The headstone was simple. Elegant. Worn down a little by time, but Liam kept it clean. He knelt before it and began pulling weeds and clearing away dry leaves that had collected like forgotten stories.

Then he paused.

There was already a bouquet there. Wrapped in black paper. Fresh.

He blinked, leaned closer, and noticed a small note tucked neatly between the flowers.

One word.

Peanut.

A name only their mother had called Ethan.

Liam's breath caught. His pulse spiked. He stood up slowly and scanned the area. But there was no one. Just the hush of the wind and the rustle of trees far off.

It had to be him.

Ethan.

He was alive. And he had come here—before Liam.

For the first time in what felt like weeks, Liam smiled.

It wasn't big, or bright. But it was real.

He looked down at the grave. "I'll find him, Mom. I swear. And I'll protect him… no matter what he's gotten himself into."

He stood in silence for a long while before turning and walking away.

---

As Liam pulled out of the cemetery drive, something caught his eye.

A figure.

A man in a black hoodie stood near the edge of the trees by the far west fence. He didn't move. His hood was pulled low, face unseen, hands in his pockets. It felt like he was in front of Margaret's grave.

Liam slowed slightly. "Weird."

But the man turned and walked away, vanishing into the woods like smoke.

Liam shook his head. "Creepy."

And the storm that followed him was already coming.

---

Later that night…

Liam's apartment smelled like microwaved noodles and sandalwood candles. He sat on the couch in a loose white T-shirt and dark joggers, half-watching the news with the sound off when a knock came at the door.

It was Millie.

She wore ripped jeans and a navy hoodie. Her smile was a little too wide, and her hands held a six-pack of cheap beer.

"I brought therapy," she declared, raising the drinks.

He let her in without a word.

She knew what day it was. She didn't ask about it. Didn't say sorry. Didn't say anything. She just dropped her bag, flopped onto the couch, and handed him a bottle.

They sat. They drank. They watched a comedy show muted while playing old-school blues.

Millie lost every time.

"Yo, you cheat," she slurred, pointing at him mid-game.

Liam smirked. "You're just trash."

"Trash… with class."

She laughed at her own joke, then hiccupped.

Liam stood and walked to the kitchen, grabbing water.

She followed, leaning against the counter.

"I ever tell you," she began, her words slurring into each other, "that you got them sad eyes? Like... like a divorced poet who writes about war and... plants."

Liam laughed. "That might be the worst compliment I've ever heard."

Millie blinked slowly. "I think about you. Sometimes. When I'm not busy."

"Busy being a menace?"

"Busy being cute," she corrected, then snorted. "But you already knew that."

They stood in silence for a moment.

She leaned in close. "Tell me something. Something true."

He hesitated.

Then he leaned on the counter beside her, voice barely above a whisper.

"I think I'm scared."

She frowned. "Of what?"

"Of losing more. Of missing my brother again. Of waking up and realizing I pushed away everything good in my life."

He looked at her then. Really looked.

"And I think I like you more than I should. But I'm too tired to lie about it anymore."

Millie blinked, eyes glassy. "That's so… hot."

Then she promptly passed out against the counter.

Liam chuckled, carried her gently to the couch, and draped a blanket over her.

He sat nearby, staring at her for a while, then whispered, "If you remember this tomorrow, maybe I'll say it again." He knew there was a very high possibility that she doesn't.

---

Outside the apartment, rain began to fall.

And far above, on a rooftop across the street, a dark figure crouched beneath the storm.

Hood low. Eyes alert.

The Shadow Walker watched from the shadows. Silently.

And then he disappeared into the rain.