The caretaker’s words hung in the air, and disbelief coursed through my veins. “Not here?” I echoed, my voice trembling with a blend of confusion and dread. The old man nodded, a knowing sadness in his eyes that only deepened my anxiety.
“Listen,” he began cautiously, glancing around as if the words might bring unwanted attention, “Thomas Vance didn’t get a proper burial. Your stepmother arranged for him to be cremated, said it was his wish.”
The revelation hit me like a punch to the gut. My legs threatened to give way beneath me, but anger flared, momentarily keeping me upright. “That’s not true,” I argued, the conviction in my voice betraying my own uncertainty. “He never wanted that. He told me he never wanted to be ashes.”
