87 On the way to a grave

**Date = 4 August**
*Four days of mourning her death.*
**Place = San Francisco (Black Pit - family graveyard)**
*Laying her to rest with the others.*

**POV - Enrique**

August in San Francisco is a month of restless fog. Early mornings are soft-edged and salt-damp, the air thick with brine, seaweed, and the faint tang of sourdough rising from unseen kitchens. Bougainvillea burns pink against weathered Victorians, and gulls wheel and scream above the piers.

Mid-days are slow to warm up, but when the sun cuts through the mist, the city smells of roasting coffee, grilled corn, and warm bread drifting from corner bakeries. Lemons hang heavy in backyard trees. Blackberries tangle in hidden alleys, staining fingertips purple.

The city is slowly shifting toward autumn, but August still clings to its feast of ripeness — a season fat with sweetness before the long dry light of September.

A September Kiara will never see.

A narrow cobblestone footpath winds lazily through the orchard, uneven and old, each stone worn smooth by years of footsteps and softened with moss in the cracks.

On either side, rows of plum trees stretch out, crooked but generous, their branches heavy with late-summer fruit, bending low as if weighed down by grief of their own. Sunlight filters through the leaves in dapples, glinting off the glossy skins of deep-red plums that hang in loose clusters, some already fallen and bruising sweetly in the dust.

It should be beautiful.

The purple stone fruits, dangling in the light, overhead, flashing against the green leaves that murmur in the faint breeze. The air, thick with the scent of ripening crops, faintly fermented, almost rotting. Bees humming low, drunk on sugar, circling the fruit that has plummeted and split in the dust.

It really should be beautiful.

But today the orchard smells too sweet, almost sickening, as if the air itself wants to mock us with abundance. Today, it sits heavy in my throat like something rancid.

The path crunches under our shoes where fennel grows wild, its licorice scent rising as we crush it on our way toward the small family graveyard.

Maybe we — Aria and I — shouldn’t have walked. But I needed fresh air. Some space.

But walking here feels like slipping back in time. For a moment, the cobblestones under my boots blur, and I am fourteen again, on this same path in a black suit too big for my shoulders.

Like now, going to say my final goodbyes to a loved one. Mom.

Back then, there were no plum trees, no sweetness in the air — only endless paddocks fenced off for my grandfather’s stupid, pampered racehorses.

The air reeked of manure, sharp and sour, a smell that clung to the back of my throat, enough to make me heave when my stomach was already hollow. I remember the weight of it, the heaviness of that walk, my heart knotted with grief and something darker — guilt.

I felt it pressing down on me. The whispers in the wind that her death was my fault.

I wanted to vomit. Wanted to kick the stallion who stared at me through the fence with soulful dark eyes. Wanted to scream until all the pain left my body. I wanted to hurt myself until the guilt disappeared.

But he was there. Alexander. So I just walked. Silently.

I remember him striding ahead, tall and solemn, his face carved into the shape of mourning.

But even as a child, I could see the lie of it, the absence of any real sorrow. He didn’t grieve. He had no guilt. Because whatever heart he was meant to have had long rotted away.

I didn’t know then what he had done, but I knew enough to hate the way his shadow fell across this path.

The sound of laughter cuts through the air like something forbidden. All through the farm, workers carry baskets piled with late peaches and dark plums, figs bursting with sugar-sweetness, and heirloom tomatoes so ripe they split in careless hands. Their voices carry faintly across the rows.

Aria struts at my side, the hem of her black dress brushing against her ankles, her steps light but deliberate. Her face is pale in the shifting light. She keeps her eyes on the path, but I can feel her thoughts circling, as restless as mine.

She doesn’t speak, and neither do I at first. Words feel wrong here, out of place. The silence is its own kind of grief — long, dragging, stitched through with the distant sounds of the farm.

Because life hasn’t stopped.

It only stopped for one.

The contrast twists something in me. The farm — alive, abundant, overflowing with fruit and labor. And we — walking toward a hole in the earth. Toward Kiara.

Somewhere, the metallic rattle of a truck gate slams shut. Filled to the brim, ready to haul the produce to the warehouses for overseas shipping, or the little farmers’ market on the edge of the property to sell to the locals.

Aria dragged me there. A colorful place, filled with life and laughter, stalls spilling over with almonds, persimmons, and early apples. Bread still steaming in little woven baskets, fish on ice, flowers bundled in twine.

A place meant for the living, people coming and going, for chatter and trade. For gathering, haggling, tasting, and having fun. The kind of place Kiara used to love, where she’d wander with Mel, teasing, bargaining badly with the vendors, ending the day with juice dripping down her chin and that smile that could have lit the whole street.

Instead, here we are, walking toward her last resting place.

My throat closes at the thought.

The path dips slightly, and the trees grow closer, their branches tangling overhead. The orchard is almost a tunnel here, the cobblestones shaded, damp with last night’s fog. A plum squishes under my shoe, sticky against the stone. The smell of sugar and soil rises up, cloying.

That is when Aria speaks, her voice soft, almost too small to hear.

“Is your grandfather buried there? In the graveyard?”

Her question hits like a stone tossed into water, rippling out. My jaw tightens. I stare at the path, at the way it curves ahead, pulling us closer to the place I least want to go.

“No,” I say finally. My voice sounds rough, even to me. “No one wanted him there.”

Aria’s eyes flick to me, but she doesn’t push. She waits. Knowing me.

I drag in a breath, the orchard pressing close around me, and force the words out.

“He and George Garcia were cremated. What was left of them. After the bomb.”

I don’t look at her. Can’t. My throat aches. My hands curl into fists at my sides. “I don’t know what happened to the ashes. Not sure I want to.”

The bitterness in my voice makes her flinch, and I regret it instantly. I shake my head, softer this time.

“Anyway, he’s not here … doesn’t deserve to be near them. Not Kiara. Not my mother. Especially not Liliana. Not anyone.”

We walk a few steps in silence. Her hand brushes mine — just the faintest touch — and for a second, I almost reach back, almost grab hold like a drowning man clinging to driftwood.

Fuck it.

I take her hand and hold it tight. Embrace every little tingle of strength I can take from her touch.

Ahead, the orchard begins to thin, the plum trees fall away until their dappled light dwindles into shadows. The air shifts cooler, dimmer, the sun almost completely swallowed by the grave stillness of coastal redwoods and sequoias, as if the land itself is preparing for mourning.

The cobblestones widen to the rough iron gate closing off the small graveyard. Rosemary hedges spill over the fence, thick with resinous scent.

Aria’s voice is quiet, almost hesitant. “Did they ever find out who planted the bomb in your grandfather’s car?”

I stare into the orchard. Two gray giants plod side by side along the dirt path, hooves thudding in that slow, hypnotic rhythm that could rock the dead to sleep. Their eyelids droop half-shut, tails flicking lazily at the flies, breaths huffing in long, patient sighs.

The wagon creaks behind them, piled high with crates, the fruity scent — sharp, green, earthy — mixes with the sweetness of figs and the citrus tang of lemons, spilling into the warm air.

Even the driver looks half-drunk on it, slouched forward, reins slipping from his fingers, his chin bobbing to the horses’ lullaby pace.

The whole procession moves at the pace of a dream, unhurried, unbothered, as though this piece of earth we’re on has no reason to rush.

This farm is so different now. Better. Peaceful. Alive. As if the curse lifted and the fruit trees repelled the ghosts.

I shake my head, eyes catching on the wagon as it jolts over a rut. A few mangoes break free, tumbling soundlessly onto the dirt, bright orange against the dust. The driver doesn’t notice … doesn’t care — his horses plod on, steady and unbothered.

The fruit lies there abandoned, destined to be eaten by critters and rot back into the soil. Life feeds death, death feeds life — the same endless circle, indifferent and merciless.

Efficient. Unbiased.

In the end, the earth swallowed him, Alexander, too. Or the flames did. The circle of life skips no one. Not even monsters.

“No,” I answer eventually, “They never did.” My money was on Harry … although he swore it wasn’t him. My mouth twists, humorless. “Whoever it was, I’d shake his hand. Buy him a drink.”

I’ve turned the question over in my head more times than I can count. Who planted the bomb? Who did the world a favor and rid it of two monsters?

“Alexander had no shortage of enemies — people who would’ve gladly buried him alive. Me included.” The list is endless.

I glance toward the fallen mangoes again. “Guess someone finally followed through.” And yet the timing gnaws at me.

They died so soon after Mom. Too soon. Maybe fate decided to tidy up the family tree. Or maybe Dad did. It makes me wonder if our father’s mind finally cracked, if losing the only woman he ever claimed to love pushed him over the edge. I can almost picture it — his hands shaking, his breath sour with whiskey, pushing a button.

But he’s gone now, too.

“You think maybe Garcia knows? Or your uncles? Or Barry? Or…” She trails off, the last name hovering unsaid between us. She doesn’t have to say it — I already know who she means.

Jackson.

And maybe she’s right. Maybe my twin knows something — the way he always seems to. But if he does, he’s buried it deep, locked it behind that steel wall he calls a conscience.

I blink, eyes still fixed on the orchard. “Maybe.”

She sighs as we watch the horses disappear behind the trees. “I’m just saying … there are so many secrets in this family … in this group …”

I let out a short laugh — dry, without joy — cause she’s not wrong. “That’s one way to put it.”

A breeze picks up, carrying the scents of fruit, dust, and memory.

“I never asked,” I admit. “Maybe I should. But sometimes …”

I pause, the words catching like splinters. “Sometimes you don’t want the truth. Sometimes it’s better not to know.” Cause it is.

A secret like that … it should not be shared. It can have devastating consequences if it comes out. And the more people know about a secret, the less secret it becomes — Alexander Blackburn.

Why is it that the people you so desperately want to forget are the ones you remember the most? The memories that stay in your head. It’s as if all the good ones fade, leaving only the bad to haunt your mind.

Aria’s voice breaks into my thoughts again, this time more tentative. But the question hits like a quiet punch.

“Why don’t you guys cry? Is it because of him?” Him. Alexander. The word alone can rot the air.

I stare at her, but she isn’t accusing — just curious, soft in that way that makes me want to tell her everything and nothing all at once.

The wind picks up again, as if whispering through the trees, restless, like it knows something heavy’s hanging in my heart.

I shrug. “I guess.”

It’s easier than explaining the rest — how the man used to punish weakness and tears leaking out of the body.

Still, sometimes I cry. Behind closed doors. Quietly. Where nobody can see.

Although Jackson knows, he never mentions it. Because if one of us breaks, the other has to hold the line.

But Jackson doesn’t break the way normal people do. His grief doesn’t leak out — it implodes. I’ve never seen Jackson cry. Not once.

Until that day in the hospital. When Kiara died. And he first thought it was Sky.

He walked away, stiff and bitter, destroyed a few things — glass, chairs, walls — making his knuckles split.

But when he reached her room. She was still there. Breathing. Machines beeping.

I saw him — breathing hard, eyes wet but refusing to blink.

He crouched on the floor, head buried in his hands, shaking like something had finally cracked open inside him.

The sound was … raw.

He wasn’t just crying for Kiara. He was crying because it wasn’t Sky. Guilt and relief tangled up like barbed wire.

And I didn’t stop him. Didn’t say a word.

I just stood there, in the hall, letting him have that moment — because he deserved it. Because for once I had to hold the line.

So when Aria asks again, softly, “Is that why?” I only nod.

Because she won’t understand that crying isn’t something we just had to unlearn — it’s also something we had to bury — deep enough — with all the other shit.

And maybe that’s worse. But it’s the only way we know how to deal.