• I took a step towards the gate for the third time this week. I had been there every other day since Saturday, studying names, dates, and the few short biographies. I know it must seem morbid, my frequent visits to the cemetery, but I’m so captivated by the past. The fact that there are endless secrets in those tombs that we’ll never know is mind boggling.
    Standing at the entrance, I couldn’t help but glance over to Griffin Chase. His was not very conspicuous, just a small brown stone, leaning slightly to the right. The epitaph gave little insight in to his life, just his name, his birth, his death, and his age. Eighteen years.
    With a small sigh, I gave in. I walked through the vast, rusted gate, its large, intricate, charcoal tinted design giving way to dilapidated reddish brown in patches. Ivy wove in and out, stretching towards the sun. The sight of the beautiful, ancient gate made me feel more at home than the colossal, professionally painted rooms and hardwood floors of my parents house ever will. I started the path I’d strolled a hundred times and, as usual, after a few steps I shivered. Not from fright, but from a sensation of peace, of silent, long waited rest. The only sound was the soft, muted crunch of early autumn leaves under my feet, the rustle of wind through the changing trees. I know most people are scared of cemeteries, but I can’t see why. The dead aren’t disturbing to me. They’re harmless.
    As I approached his grave, I smoothed out my skirt. Why did I always want to look good for the dead? White, flowing skirt cut mid-thigh, black short sleeved top with a lace upper back, raven hued heels. Granted, I just got back from a piano recital. Even still, this attire wasn’t unusual for me to wear here. I guess I just feel that the dead should be respected, because without those from yesterday, we wouldn’t have the same today.
    I kneeled at the grave and twisted a honey hued curl around my finger as I read the words I knew by heart: In memory of Griffin Chase, who was born Oct. 28, 1790, and died Aug. 9, 1808. Aged 18 years, 10 months, 9 days.
    These are the words that occupy my thoughts day and night. I can never stop thinking about him. How did he die? Was he in pain? Was it sudden? What was he like? What did he want to do with his life? Did he have a family? I never saw another Chase in this graveyard. I wonder what he looked like, and can’t stand the fact that I’ll never know. The questions were driving me insane, and my constant visits were probably only adding to the stress.
    Only one thing was on my mind though, as I kneeled before him. Comfort. The sun was slowly setting behind me, casting a mellow honeyed amber tint across the grass, against the headstone. I traced a finger over the carved letters. Still, I can remember what drew me to this grave.
    It was a week before my sixteenth birthday. I don’t know what exactly made me want to pass through those gates, but once I was in, I felt good. I felt like I was in the right place for me. It was spring then, and great green oaks and weeping willows cast shadows over the land as I followed the path that ran between the sections of graves, like an immense cross with a big circle where it intersects. The cemetery was huge, containing more graves than people in town. Probably because everyone who had lived in town ended up here. As I walked through the path, I went to multiple, random graves. All unique, yet some blended in, creating a back drop so the huge, sculpted ones had something to be compared to, to make them look grand in comparison. Interestingly enough, I was evoked by the small ones, the ones that blend in. Just like Griffin’s.
    I was drawn to Griffin’s grave because it was in the middle of the yard, surrounded by massive, expensive looking stones, with sculptures and carvings on each. Griffin’s, however, was small and simple, like a black morning glory in a field of bleeding hearts. I felt an irresistible pull to it, and have been coming back ever since. Recently, though, more frequently than ever. Today for instance, right after I got home from playing at my performance, I came directly here, like I wanted to share my victory of my excellent recital with him.
    I glanced around. As far as I could see, the sloping graveyard was deserted, other than me. That’s when I talk.
    “Remember how I was telling you about that Bach piece I’d be playing today? Prelude and Fugue number eight in e-flat minor? Well, I did it without a hitch. I was surprised, actually. I knew I could play it at home, but when I have an audience… well, it’s a whole different ball game,” I smiled lightly. Despite what you think about me, I can assure you that in actuality, I am not crazy. I just like talking to him. It makes me feel like finally, someone is listening.
    I wrapped my arms around my torso, holding myself tight as my smile shrinks. Poor Griffin. I wonder what he would do differently if he had the chance. He died before he got the chance to live. It doesn’t seem fair.
    As I’m thinking this, a sudden voice makes me jump, “This grave has a beautiful view of the sunset.”
    My heart panics in my chest. I swivel my body to look behind me, and sure enough there is a tall, smiling, dark haired teenage boy standing directly behind me. As my adrenaline races, I remember that there had been no one around a moment ago. Where did he come from? Did he hear me? I look up at him, my eyes wide in awe.
    His easy, friendly smile falls, and his forehead creases, “Oh, my apologies. Did I frighten you?”
    As he said this, my awe shifted from shock of his sudden appearance, and I’m stunned by his looks. Milky white skin, dark blue-green eyes and hair like dark chocolate silk threads with a purposefully disheveled style and soft look. He was strikingly handsome. Strong, flawless features, perfect symmetry. Gorgeous. He was wearing faded black jeans and a dark gray t-shirt. He was lean but muscled, and stood perfectly straight. He had certain elegance about him, even in his casual attire.
    “Um…” I stuttered, pushing back my side bangs.
    His smile returned, brightening his faultless face. He held a hand out to me, and I hesitantly took it, noting his soft skin, but firm grasp. He pulled me to my feet. Even in my heels, he was taller by about half a foot. I’m pretty short, but he was obviously tall by anyone’s standards.
    His fingers lingered on mine even after I was stable, and I self consciously smoothed out my skirt as soon as his finger tips left mine, trying to ignore the tingling feeling his hand left.
    “Um, yeah, I come here a lot,” I said, looking up at him.
    “I’ve seen you,” He smiled. I blushed. I never blush unless a lot of attention is placed directly on me, which in a way there was, given his tender, steady gaze. Even through my flush, my foggy mind registered that I had never once seen him before, even as he’s said he’s seen me.
    “I’m Lena,” I said.
    “Lena,” He repeated, his deep, warm voice caressing my name, filling it with mellifluous charm.
    “I’ve never seen you before,” I edged. Usually, I didn’t want to share Griffin’s grave. I liked being alone with him. For some reason, I felt a better… connection, just him and me. I was surprised that I didn’t want to push this stranger away, that I didn’t feel the tie sizzle out.
    The bond was only stronger, intensified insanely by his presence.
    “I’m always around,” he said with a smirk, like he was reminded of some inside joke, “and you are always here.”
    “Well…” I hesitated. Did I really want to open up to this perfect stranger? I was about to stop talking when I looked up at his patient, waiting eyes, and I spoke, “I feel connected to this grave. He’s just a year older than me. Or, you know, was. He just inspires me. Makes me feel like I should seize every day, because honestly, who knows what tomorrow will bring?” I blush at my confession and turn my eyes away. What was with my over-active blood stream?
    “You’re very intuitive,” he said, looking at me with those deep eyes, almost admiringly. I couldn’t help my self-conscious teenage mind from wondering what a guy like him would find admirable about me.
    “I just have so many questions for him,” I continued, looking back at the headstone. To be completely honest, it felt pretty good opening up to someone about my feeling for this grave. I’m the youngest of three daughters, and yet my sisters, Lacey and Lexi, don’t understand why I love it here so much, and my parents just think it’s a phase that I’ll grow out of it. They wish that I’ll stop being the strange daughter who disappears for hours to a cemetery and take interest in being a brain surgeon or something.
    In my family, I’m the black sheep, the one who doesn’t want to be a president or a lawyer or doctor. I just want to write and be me. I want to come to Griffin whenever I want, and I want to be me.
    Is that too much to ask from my family?
    And now, here I am with a guy I’ve known for maybe four minutes, and he actually understands me? He always sees me? Where has he been, and why hasn’t he spoken before?
    “I come here as well,” his voice breaks in to my thoughts, “I have history with this grave.”
    With this new thought in my head, I gathered up my courage and turned to face him, my brow furrowed, “If you’re always here, and you always notice me, why did you choose today? What makes today different?”
    Whoa. Where did that come from?
    He raised his brows, obviously just as surprised at my accusing tone as I was, if not more.
    “Do you wish for me to leave?”
    “No,” I said a little too quickly. I took a deep breath. Seize the day… “Just why now?”
    His face grew suddenly intense, serious, a small “V” forming between his furrowed brows, and a muscle jumped in his jaw, “Because I could not watch you walk in here another day, grieving and mourning when you do not understand at all. I cannot take seeing the hopeless curiosity on your face,” he took a step forward, “because it is too beautiful to be clouded with worry and fret,”
    I blinked, shocked motionless as he put his hand against my neck, cupping it, his thumb rubbing softly against my cheek. I’m sure he could feel my quickened pulse against his palm.
    “Don’t worry,” he whispered. And just like that, the anxiety subsided. I felt safe.
    I stared in to his eyes for an immeasurable amount of time. Seconds, minutes, hours. Every moment stilled to a beautiful, precious moment, stretching in to infinity. An understanding passed through us in that instance, and slowly, I drew in a breath.
    “What’s your name?”
    A large smile graced his face, and for the first time, I noted something slightly off about his straight, pearly white teeth.
    His sharp, elongated canines, glinting in the setting September sun. My eyes went wide as he said the words that sent my world spiraling.
    “Griffin Chase.”