This is why I stop. Nolan has to give me a gentle tug on the arm to coax my feet back into movement.

“It’s okay,” he says. I’m not sure which of us he is trying to reassure. “Please?”

It’s his please that pushes me through the low, open gate, and for once I am glad that Jenna—or what’s left of her physical shell—is not here.

But who is?

We crunch through soggy leaves, wet from yesterday’s rain, and past a mix of terribly old and bitterly new headstones. I read the names as we go and can’t keep myself from saying a silent prayer for those left behind, even if the death date is a century before my time. The train station of my mind is filled with errant, disconnected engines that speed past the loading platform. Can you inherit grief like you inherit eye color? I wonder how many people came to these funerals. I wonder if there’s anything left of the casket or the person in there. I wonder if there’s anyone left who remembers Jane Smith or Daniel Folks.

Somewhere nearby, I hear a chorus of high, tinkling wind chimes. The sound grows louder as Nolan stops in front of another iron gate. It quarters off the far left corner of the cemetery. A mini forest of trees that have not been cut down to make room for more bodies stands within. This gate is locked and much higher than the low gate through which we entered. Nolan takes a key on a long silver chain from beneath his shirt and fits it into the padlock, the gate creeping open with a cheerful, almost welcoming whine.

We stand at the mouth of the gate, me confused and terrified about whose grave I’m about to see, while also trying not to think of Jenna and her grave and her deadness. Nolan puts the silver chain back over his head and reaches down, linking his fingers through mine.

“Okay?” he asks.

I look down at our joined hands, turning them from side to side with the movement of my wrist.

“It’s okay,” I say.

And somehow it is.

Through the heavy green trees, the branches just barely grazing our arms, we walk side by side for the few steps it takes to reach the small clearing. From here, I could almost imagine a wide forest spreading out around us, endless and dark and enchanting. The chimes play their haunted melodies, smiling at our joined hands.

My breath catches when I see the two smoothed hunks of petrified wood nestled between twin cedar trees, each natural headstone bearing a small metal plaque. They feel like Orman, blissfully new while unmistakably old. Their purpose is enough to make my insides roll into a ball, but at Nolan’s urging, I release his hand and fall forward to my knees to read the words aloud.

“Emily Jane Endsley and Avery Juniper Endsley. Together in life and death.”