Chapter 3 - The Ghost at Green-Wood
The morning mist clung to the rolling hills of Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn like a damp shroud. I stood among the weathered Victorian monuments, guided only by the handwritten plot number the cemetery sexton had given me with reluctant distaste.
At the edge of a newly turned patch of earth under a sprawling weeping willow, there was no grand granite headstone. There was only a modest bronze plaque embedded in the sod, barely the size of an open palm.
Leo Vance. September 14, 2026. Forever Loved, Never Known.
The breath left my lungs in a ragged gasp. I fell to my knees in the wet grass, the mud soaking through my slacks, heedless of the cold autumn wind whipping through my coat. I reached out a trembling hand, tracing the freshly carved letters of the name Meline had chosen in secret. We had debated dozens of names over dinner months ago, laughing over baby books, but in the end, she had faced the birth certificate and the death certificate entirely by herself.
""Leo,"" I whispered into the hollow air, the syllable tasting like ash. ""I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry.""
""He can't hear you, Damen.""
The quiet, melodic voice made my head snap up. Emerging from behind the trunk of the willow tree stood Meline.
She wore a long black wool coat wrapped tightly around her slender frame. Her face was gaunt, the vibrant roses that usually graced her cheeks completely drained away. Her dark hair was pulled back into a simple, loose knot, and purple bruises of sleepless grief were sunken deep beneath her eyes. She looked like a ghost carved from marble, fragile enough that a strong gust of wind might shatter her into dust.
""Meline,"" I choked out, scrambling to stand, reaching toward her with both arms outstretched. ""Meline, my God, you're alive. Let me hold you. Please.""
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She took two deliberate steps backward, her eyes flat and empty. There was no fire, no screaming fury, no tears. That was the most terrifying part. The woman who used to throw pillows at me when I forgot our anniversary, who cried at sad dog commercials, was looking at me with the absolute, chilling detachment one might reserve for a stranger on a subway platform.
""Don't touch me,"" she said, her voice barely louder than the rustling leaves. ""If your fingers brush my coat, I will scream until the groundskeepers remove you. You don't belong here, Damen. You forfeited the right to mourn this child the second you stepped over my blood to answer another woman's phone call.""
