Apr 11, 2022
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
The cemetery is cold, quiet.
The cemetery with its wrought-iron fence and yellowing grass greets him like an old friend, and Tommy breathes in the air with a sigh. The sun is just barely peeking over the horizon, twining ribbons of orange and red cutting like headlights through the gray. The morning has just begun, but this place knows it not. Time doesnβt matter to dirtied graves, to flowers wilting and brittle, after all. Time doesnβt matter when youβre dead and when you do not care.
