"Stand up straight," Rhys said, his tone cold and devoid of warmth.
Margot bit her lip and looked to Veronica West like she'd been wronged.
Veronica was still angry about Rhys's cold shoulder over the past two weeks, and seeing his attitude now only fueled her temper. "Margot isn't well, and look at this weather. Can't you speak nicely?"
"I didn't ask her to come."
Rhys stared at the photo of his father on the tombstone. He looked so much like the man in the photo it was unsettling, and yet something still felt missing. His chest felt tight.
"This is my father's grave. Why are you two here?"
Veronica froze, then snapped, "I came to see him. Is that a crime?"
Rhys didn't want to argue in front of his father's grave. He closed his eyes, suppressing his anger. "Are you done? If you're done, leave."
Whenever he saw Margot, he thought of the child Clara had lost, and the "blood money" note Clara had written on the bank transfer. He remembered Margot tearing off her mask, smiling as she told him, "I never forced you. You made your own choices."
"Fine!" Veronica didn't want to stay in the rain anyway. She pulled her coat tighter and said to Margot, "Margot, let's go."
The three of them walked down the narrow path. Rhys deliberately lagged behind, putting significant distance between himself and the women.
A splash of white caught his eye.
Rhys stopped. There, quietly resting on a limestone slab by the roadside, was a bouquet of white lilies. The flowers were wrapped in a specific, dark matte paper with a unique texture.
It was Clara's habit. She had once said that honoring a hero required solemnity; she hated generic florist wrapping and always picked the paper to wrap the flowers herself. For years, every time they visited the grave, she brought flowers exactly like these.
Rhys's heart skipped a beat. He walked over quickly and bent down to pick up the bouquet. When he had arrived earlier, there was nothing here. The flowers were fresh, and the paper hadn't been ruined by the rain yet. Someone had just left.

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