this is my english story from like last term 

It's a short story set after the events in The Fall (by Tristan Banks)

sorry about the long paragraphs I kinda can't be stuffed to change them

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The gravel crunches under my feet as I jump down from the car. I catch the familiar scent of flowers and admire the delicate, bizarre beauty of the graveyard. I feel a hand slip into mine and I tilt my head up to see my father smiling down at me. We walk along the path, taking the usual turns in silence. I slow every now and then, so my dad doesn't get left behind. He has a bit of a limp. Tall wattle trees arch over the pathway, their flowers scattered ahead. Most people would associate a graveyard with sadness and grief, but for some reason I feel a certain beauty in the atmosphere. Instead of thinking of death, I think of all the people here and all the experiences they had, the people they met. I am struck by a moment of sonder. We stop in front of a large white tombstone, one I have now seen many times. Engraved upon it is the name John Merrin.

My dad kneels down, placing the flowers he clutches in his right hand against the grave. This has become a weekly tradition of ours; each Friday after he picks me up from school. He drops Harry at swimming and then we go to the florist and he lets me pick some flowers. My favourite flowers are lilies, like my name.

I stare at the grave. I don't know who John Merrin was, not really. He must have been important to my dad, for him to come here each week. I've tried to ask him, but he never answers me. Sometimes when we come here we sit on the park bench and I lean against his shoulder in a comfortable silence. Other times he will tell stories. Of good and evil, heroes and crime. My favourite is the one about a boy called Samuel, a 13-year-old boy who sounds a bit like him. He didn't quite get to the good part last time though. Sometimes he stops in the middle of a story and he can't continue. I worry about him. Probably too much. As he stands up again he picks me up and throws me over his shoulder, as though I weigh as much as a feather. I squeal and laugh. We twirl and run, laughing and playing until our sides are split. I do most of the running. But I can't thoroughly enjoy myself, because there's a question nagging me, plaguing my thoughts. As we collapse on the grass from exhaustion, I roll over, facing my dad and decide to let the question out.

"Dad?" I ask quietly, trying to hide my nerves. "What happened to John Merrin?" Instead of changing the subject like I thought he would, he takes a deep breath and starts to talk.

"When I was twelve," he says with a steady, calm voice as he stares up at the clouds, "I saw a man die. He had been in an argument and ended up falling off a balcony. I was scared, but also proud, so I decided I could deal with it on my own. I wanted to prove to my dad, your grandad, that I be a crime reporter like him. I wanted to impress him because I thought he didn't love me."

"You sound a bit like Samuel," I voice with a small smile.

"Yeah," he says, the corners of his mouth twitching. "I was like Samuel. But I didn't have a time machine to erase my mistakes. Though, when I look back on what happened, I wouldn't change anything I did. I learnt an important lesson that day."

"What?"

"Don't ever feel like you need to prove yourself," he says, locking his eyes on mine. "And don't change. Not for anyone. Because if they don't love you for who you are, you can't make them. And there is no point having someone love you for who you aren't." His eyes are smiling softly and I feel an overwhelming amount of happiness fill me. "You are Lily," he pokes me in the chest gently. "And you have a fire inside of you just like your mother. And we both love you. Very much."

"Very much?"

"Yes, very very much."

"Why do you still visit John Merrin's grave?" I question, voicing my thoughts, "When everything happened so long ago?" He stands up carefully to avoid hurting his knee, and offers me his hand.

"I think it's important to remember the past. Not so you can dwell on it, but so you can remember who you were, and so you can move on."

"Have you moved on yet?"

"It's taken a while," he says with a small smile. "But yes, I think I have." With one last look back at the graveyard, we walk back to the car hand in hand; with gravel crunching under our shoes, admiring the wattle trees dancing against the orange sky and the crickets singing their mellifluous lullaby. My happiness is ineffable.