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Something changed in me the year my grandfather died. I didn't know it at the time, but now, looking back, it feels like his passing was just one of the first dark clouds of a long, bleak storm. As if his death had opened a door to something far larger than just grief. College was rough and the imposter syndrome steadily grew worse. I thought I'd have life figured out by now but I feel more lost than I ever did before.

I had avoided my hometown for years after college, staying busy with life, my career, and friends. But when I got the news of his death, something tugged at me to return. It wasn't just the obligation of family, though there was certainly that. It was something deeper, an unspoken need to confront what his absence meant. My old hometown felt so surreal after all those years away. Streets I'd once known felt unfamiliar, like they were shifting just beyond recognition.

And then there was the graveyard. That place had been out of sight and out of mind for months, but now, it was all I could think about. It called to me, like whispers carried on a cold breeze, just out of earshot but persistent, beckoning me closer. The day I finally made the trip, it was early February. The sky was overcast, a dull blanket of gray pressing down. The fog was thick, wrapping the graveyard in a dense shroud. It settled low, creeping over the ground like the underbelly of some ancient beast. There was something otherworldly about it.

My sweater pockets are stuffed with tissues, both new and used, and I keep squeezing them in my hands as if they could ward off the cold that seeped through everything. The frost clung to the dead leaves and branches, and even the air felt brittle as I breathed it in. Winter had its claws in the town, and there was no escaping its grip.

When I step through the gates of the graveyard, I notice immediately how quiet it is. The kind of quiet that's almost oppressive, where every small sound is magnified. There aren't many people around, but that only makes me more nervous. I had avoided coming here for so long. I hadn't been able to bring myself to face the reality of Henry being gone. I feel a strange mix of dread and guilt—guilt that I hadn't come sooner, and dread at what it would mean to finally stand in front of his grave.

As I walk between the rows of headstones, I notice there are more fresh graves than I expected. Some are still just plots of earth, waiting for bodies that hadn't arrived yet. It gives me a sinking feeling in my stomach, like I'm walking through a field of endings that haven't happened yet. As I approach my grandfather's grave, I slow down, not quite ready for what I am about to see.

Henry Caldwell. There it is. His name carved into the cold, gray stone. His final resting place. Dead flowers and used incense sticks are strewn across the grave. Who had been here and left this mess? Why hadn't anyone cleaned it up? My chest tightens as I bend down to sweep them away, brushing off the dirt and debris. I pull a bunch of yellow flowers from my bag and lay them down carefully at the foot of the grave.

There is another man nearby, praying quietly over a headstone. I glance at him briefly—he murmurs to himself, his hands clasped together, swaying slightly as he prays. The presence of another person makes me feel self-conscious, like my grief is something that can be witnessed, judged.

I close my eyes, trying to summon the words for a prayer. I haven't prayed in so long, I am not even sure I remember how. Religion has never been a central part of my life, but I believe in something. I believe in God, in some form of higher power, but my faith is more a quiet whisper than a guiding light. And now, standing here, I realize how unprepared I am.

"Hi, Grandpa," I whisper, my voice shaking. "If you can hear me, I'm sorry I didn't come sooner. I miss you. I should've been here earlier."

My fingers fidget in my lap as I kneel down. There is a lump in my throat that refuses to go away. My coughs echo through the graveyard, earning some attention from the others here to mourn. There's a ringing in my ear, a sharp chime. It rings against the dull thuds of my heart beating in my chest. The cold makes it laborious to breathe. Maybe this is how grandad felt with his asthma. The winters must have been a nuisance to live through.

"I hope you're at peace," I say, my voice barely more than a breath. "I really hope you are. I know... I know we didn't talk as much toward the end, but I thought about you all the time. I just... I wasn't ready for this."

The breeze picks up again, colder now, and I pull my sweater tighter around myself. I feel silly asking for a sign, but I do it anyway.

"If you're still around, Grandpa, can you let me know? Just... something. Anything. I don't know, maybe I just need to know you're okay."

The wind stills. For a moment, everything feels so still that I can believe the whole world has stopped. No sound, no movement, just me and the gravestone in the fog. I sit here for a while longer, just staring at the ground, thinking about everything we hadn't said, the years that had passed, and how different life felt now that he was gone.

Eventually, I wipe the tears from my face with the back of my hand, stand up, and brush off my knees. I know it is time to go, but it feels wrong leaving him alone here like this. In the cold without his inhaler. With each step I take away from his grave, the uneasy feeling only grows stronger. The mist seems to cling to me, like I am not walking out of the graveyard alone.

School taught me about sex and intimacy before it taught me about grief. I knew how to handle a condom before I knew how to handle loss. I always expected unprotected sex to affect my life more than anything else in the world. At least that's how they presented it to us. As a teenager, that's all that would matter to us, right? So when my best friend's abusive father died in fifth grade, none of us knew how to handle it. I can't even remember if I told her I was sorry. Because was I? Was she? I waited for the period of grief to blow over like a traveling black cloud. Everything would be okay once I gave her some time. But just like an unplanned pregnancy, that shit stays. 

It is not until I reach the gates that I allow myself a deep breath. Whatever had changed inside me the previous year, I knew it wasn't done yet. The fog follows me to grandma's, beside the cliff, and I can't shake the feeling that I've strung something else of the graveyard too.