The gravel crunched beneath shoes that were entirely too small for the solemnity of Brookside Memorial.

Richard Blackwood didn't move. For a man who managed billions of dollars in assets, closed multi-national corporate acquisitions over breakfast, and stared down ruthless competitors without blinking, the sight of three small children paralyzed him.

They were identical. About three years old, maybe four. They wore matching charcoal-gray wool coats with tiny silver buttons, white knee-high socks, and patent-leather shoes scuffed at the toes. Their dark hair was tied back with velvet ribbons that had seen better days, and their wide, terrified eyes looked up at him with a startling, heartbreaking familiarity.

The girl in the middle clutched a crumpled, damp photograph to her chest like a shield.

"You're standing on her grass," the girl on the left said. Her voice was small, sharp, and unmistakably fierce.

Richard's breath caught in his throat. He looked down at his polished leather shoes, standing barely an inch away from the crisp edge of Elizabeth's granite marker. He slowly stepped back, his mind refusing to connect the dots.

"I'm sorry," Richard said, his voice grating against his dry throat. "Where are your parents?"

The girl in the middle—the one holding the photograph—took a hesitant step forward. As the morning sun broke fully through the heavy canopy of maples, her face caught the light.

Richard staggered backward. The cold marble of another headstone bit into his spine.

It was Elizabeth’s face. It was the face he had kissed on their wedding day, the face he had wept over in the hospital morgue, the face that haunted his empty mansion every single night. It was compressed into miniature, softened by toddlerhood, but undeniable. The sharp arch of the brows, the slight curve of the lower lip, the amber flecks in the deep brown eyes.

"We don't have parents anymore," the middle girl whispered, her lower lip trembling. "Auntie Sarah said you were our daddy. She said if we walked all the way up the hill and found the lady with the lilies, you would be here."

Richard stared at them, the world spinning off its axis. Elizabeth had died three years ago. Exactly three years, ten months, and twelve days.

Three years.

The math slammed into him with the force of a freight train.

"Who sent you?" Richard demanded, dropping to his knees on the damp grass, completely forgetting the pristine crease of his expensive trousers. "Who is Auntie Sarah?"

The girl holding the photo stepped closer, thrusting the damp, dog-eared piece of paper into his trembling hand.

"Mommy said you kept all her letters," the child whispered. "She said if anything ever happened to her, we had to give you this so you'd remember us."