The biting wind whipped around Ash, stinging her tear-filled eyes as she stood before Dravo’s gravestone. The raw grief was a physical weight, pressing down on her, stealing her breath. Three months. Three months since his brutal death, since the police closed the case, since the world turned its back on her.

She clutched the single, wilting rose in her hand, its thorns pricking her skin, a faint echo of the deeper wounds within. Around her, the other mourners had long dispersed, leaving only the desolate quiet of the cemetery. Their accusing stares, however, still burned in her memory, their whispered judgments echoing louder than any eulogy.

“I’m so sorry, Dravo,” she choked out, her voice a fragile whisper against the vast silence. She knelt, placing the rose and a worn photograph of them together at the base of the cold stone. It was a picture from happier times, their smiles bright and genuine, oblivious to the lurking shadow that would soon extinguish them.

Her phone, a recent replacement for the one she’d shattered in a fit of despair, vibrated in her pocket. She knew without looking. Another gift. Another chilling reminder from the nameless, faceless man who had taken everything from her.

“He was watching me,” she murmured, a primal certainty settling in her bones. “He’s always watching.” The air grew colder, and a shiver, unrelated to the wind, ran down her spine. The knowledge was a suffocating blanket, a constant, unseen presence.

There was no escape. Not from the grief, not from the whispers, and certainly not from him.