The intricate iron gate swung open, stirring the thick fog. The gloom threatened to swallow me whole, and in some ways I hoped it would. I walked along the cobblestone path, heading towards the towering mauseleom in the center of the graveyard, listening to the winter wind whip through the bare trees.

I used to feel uneasy among cemeteries. I felt uncomfortable walking above the dead. I hated the idea of disturbing them and being disrespectful. Up until recently, I avoided the subject of death at all costs. As a child, I always was fascinated by the morbid and maccbre. I loved hearing ghost stories and learning about tragic histories. It’s gotten a little easier in the last few months. But walking among headstones always connected the stories too close to reality for me. Roaming amongst tombs and crypts reminded me that one day, I will die. And I try not to dwell on that fact.

Up until a year ago, I had no real reason to be in a graveyard. The pain of loss had yet to reach me, but now that it has, I feel a sense of commraderie with the dead. My grandmother was the most influential person in my life and my best friend. Our souls were cut from the same cloth and I’ve never felt more embraced by someone. Her death has changed my entire outlook on grief, the afterlife, and ultimately cemeteries.

Now, I find myself walking from headstone to headstone, picking up fallen flags for the veterans, turning toppled vases right side up, or pulling weeds from the granite stones.

Other times, I bring a book and sit beside my grandmother’s headstone. I have come to hope that my presence brings her and the other’s resting here some comfort, wherever they may be. I hope they know that they have not been forgotten.

The late winter chill in the air has my cheeks flushing so I fold my shawl in, burrowing as the snow begins to fall in flurries. Usually, I find myself alone here at this time of day, the sun drifting below the horizon. It’s uncommon for vistors to stay this late in the evening, but I feel compelled to wish the residents a goodnight.

The dark is the worst place to be alone. Somehow, I don’t feel alone here. I don’t feel as though I’m being watched, but I feel like I’m being looked after.

I lift my eyes to the nearby treeline, just beyond the groundskeepers cottage. A figure passes between the anciet oaks, sauntering along. As the snow begins to stick to the ground, I find myself wondering about the groundskeeper. What must it be like to work amongst the dead? Day in, and day out, to be constantly reminded of the inevitable end in store.

The figure begins to come to a stop beside the largest oak in the cemetery. I can make out his broad shoulders and black slicked back hair. He leans against the trunk, shoving his hands in his pockets. Under his stare I feel oddly comforted. Not being the only one out here for a change feels nice.

Placing my bookmark between the pages, I close the cover and stand. Maybe the groundskeeper would enjoy some company while he makes his rounds.

Kneeling, I gather the rest of my belongings and sling my bag over my shoulder. When I look up at the treeline again, the groundskeeper is gone. Puzzled, I beeline straight to the oak tree he was just leaning upon.

The fog is so thick, the snow becoming a dance of powder on the wind, I begin to wonder if I imagined him. He appeared so clear to me.

Once I reach the tree, I notice a piece of folded parchment is laid upon the largest root. I bend down to pick it up, brows furrowing. The note reads “We thank you for bidding us good night, kind visitor. Your beauty and compassion is never unnoticed by us that rest here. You are never alone here, for we are always protecting those that honor us. I hope to meet you someday, when you cross to this realm. - Sincerely Yours, Victor.”

As I finish reading the note, it feels as though icy finger tips gently trace my jaw. Beneath the oak tree, etched into the stone of the mauseleum reads, “Victor Cromwell - Dearly Departed”.