Rule 1: Do Not Take It to Heart
Some people like cemeteries. 
The best ones come to sit and remember. Quiet souls who bring flowers, talk a little, and leave the air softer than when they arrived. There are others too, the ones who take what isn’t theirs, or come to chase a thrill among the stones. I’ve little patience for them.
And then there are the dead. I don’t know if they like it here, or if liking has nothing to do with it.
And me—I’m the only living resident of St Aubin’s Rest, though some days the word living feels generous.
“Lucien.”
Her voice drifts through the still air—thin as smoke, fragile as the breeze through dry grass.
I stop and glance behind the old rose bush, a vast, untamed thing whose branches arch like ribs over the gravel. Its blooms have come back with sudden abundance after the rain fortnight ago, crimson petals beaded with dew and the faint scent of rust. Beneath it stands Odette, her small shape half-lost in the green. She turns, eyes pale and clouded like morning mist. She’s been a quiet fixture in my days for as long as I can remember—a presence more than a person, a voice that returns no matter the season. I’ve often wondered if she truly sees me, or only feels the air shift where I stand. Best not to ask.
“Odette,” I say quietly. “Good morning.”
She brightens at once. “Oh, good morning, dear. Have you seen him about today?”
“Not yet. Still another hour before visitors.”
“Ah, yes… of course.” Her smile deepens, folding into the fine creases that map her cheeks, the sort of lines made by a lifetime of kindness. Then she fades a little into the light, content to wait.
I move on, following the winding path through the graves. The stones dot the grassy hill like teeth in an old jaw—some white and clean as bone, others eroded to ghosts of names. Angel wings without faces. Crosses sunk at odd angles, tilting towards the valley below. A warm wind rises from the south, carrying the scent of thyme and dust from the fields. The first breath of summer. It whispers through the cypress and the wildflowers between the plots, stirring the edges of my coat.

The office squats at the end of the lane just inside the main gate—one small room and a toilet block, both the colour of old plaster. A red truck is parked at an impatient angle across the gravel. I sigh under my breath. The trust’s been hiring extra hands again. “Casual labourers,” they call them. Strangers to the dead, I call them. They never stay long enough to learn the ground’s temperament.
The door creaks as I push it open. A man in a red cap steps out of the toilet, wiping his hands on his jeans. He gives me a nod—or maybe just a grunt—and mistakes me for another day-hand. 
Fine by me. 
We walk into the office.
Inside, a young woman I don’t recognise looks up from the desk. Her smile falters when her eyes land on me. To her credit, she pulls it back—trained reflex, maybe kindness. I tug the hood lower without thinking. It’s habit now, the small mercy of sparing people the sight of what’s left of me. Easier for them. Easier for me. Keeps the clean distance from the living.
Mrs Arnaud told me last month she was retiring. I hadn’t wanted to believe her. Seeing this young woman behind the desk, neat blouse, hair pinned up against the heat, makes the truth settle. Must be her granddaughter.
“M-morning,” I mumble, hoping my voice stays small.
“Morning,” she replies, brave enough to sound almost steady.
She tears a sheet from the pad and scribbles notes with brisk, nervous movements.