Alaina Dans stared at the block of granite in front of her. It was smooth and shiny, a pebbled gray and black, the way granite should look. It was St. Cloud granite, mined and crafted right here in Minnesota. Only the finest for her family.

The etched name on the surface of the stone was still clear, still easy to read.

It should’ve been.

The stone had been erected only weeks earlier.

A gust of wind howled through the bare-branch trees and the heavy limbs creaked above her. Alaina tucked her chin to her neck and pulled her coat tighter around her slender frame. The thick Columbia jacket and warm Sorrel boots she wore kept her body protected from the harsh arctic air blowing in from the north, but they did nothing for the exposed skin on her face.

She blinked, trying to stem the tears building behind her eyes. But they fell free, streaking down her cheeks, instantly freezing and sticking to her skin. Angrily, she pulled a gloved hand free from its pocket and slashed at them.

She bit her lip and forced her eyes back to the headstone. Her eyes misted again when she focused on the name.

Noah Dans.

She let out a shaky breath and dropped to her knees. The snow on the ground quickly saturated her jeans, soaking through to her skin, numbing her.

Good. Her body could feel as numb as her mind.

As numb as her heart.

She pulled off a glove and dropped it. The red of the wool fabric was a stark contrast to the pristine white of the snow. She was grateful for the storm that had dumped a few inches just two days earlier. It hid the mound of dirt in front of her, the earth that had been dug up with a backhoe, the dirt so frozen it had come out in hunks, almost like pieces of granite themselves.

She stepped to the side, then reached out and touched the headstone. The wind stabbed at her fingers like a tiny thousand needles and she flexed them, almost as if she were reveling in the pain, the numbness. With her pointer finger, she traced the “N,” giving herself time to feel the smoothness of the stone. No, she wasn’t giving herself time. She was making herself do this, almost as if it were a form of punishment.

You will touch those letters! Every single one of them. Slowly. Pay attention!

She did this with each letter, tracing every single one of them until she had spelled out her brother’s name.

Noah Dans.

Her fingers moved to the next engraved line. The dates.

The date of his birth.

The date of his death.

She fixated on this date, her eyes locked on the seven numbers.

2.

22.

2018.

She worked the numbers over in her mind, wondering if there was a pattern to them, a message.

Of course there wasn’t.

That wouldn’t make any sense.

But neither did the fact that her younger brother was dead. He wasn’t at school, he wasn’t at home, he wasn’t with friends.

He was buried in the ground beneath her, his body forever trapped in a mahogany coffin, his grave marked with a slab of granite.

Only the finest, she thought bitterly. Only the finest.

Church bells from town rang in the distance, a steady chime that pierced the silence. She could see the people filing out of the white clapboard building, its stained-glass windows muted in the weak March sunshine, rushing to their cars to hurry from one warm enclosure to the next. Rushing home to lunch, to homework, to chores.

She closed her eyes.

Noah would never rush to anything again.

Images and thoughts flooded her mind—of Noah alive, and then of the days after his death, of the funeral and the reception afterward, where people brought her lukewarm coffee and plates of cookies, and murmured their condolences. It had taken everything she had not to scream and rage and smash her plate against the wall.

Her brother was dead.

A sob escaped her lips, a sound that was more like a howl, like a banshee, and she wondered if the churchgoers could hear her, the same way she had heard their bells just a moment ago.

It was the first time she had cried since…

Since Noah died.

Alaina forced her eyes open, forced herself to look at the name etched on the granite. She was at eye level with it now, face-to-face with the gravestone.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered brokenly. The tears flowed freely, each streak arresting midway down her cheek, freezing solid against her skin. She reached out a finger to trace them. They felt like scars and she wished they would stay, a permanent testament to her anguish.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, louder this time, her voice breaking. She took a deep breath and then coughed as the frigid air filled her lungs. Her nose burned.

She tried again. “I don’t know what happened to you. I know what they’re saying, but I don’t believe it.” She shook her head, and the strands of hair not trapped under her hat tickled her jaw. “I’m going to find out the truth, Noah.”

She leaned in and wrapped her arms around the gravestone. She laid her cheek against its frigid surface. The engraved letters and numbers scratched her skin, slicing through the frozen trail of tears. She pressed her face harder against it.

“The truth,” she whispered, closing her eyes. If she tried hard enough, could she convince herself that she was holding her brother instead of his gravestone?

She didn’t know.

She drew in a shaky breath but kept her eyes closed, her arms encasing the stone marker.

If she tried hard enough, could she convince herself that she had been a good sister? That she hadn’t ignored him? That she hadn’t forgotten about him? That she hadn’t refused his calls or his requests to see her?

A fresh sob rose inside of her.

No.

There was no way she could convince herself of that.