The town had stood for centuries, weathered but never broken, nestled between the mountains like a secret kept by time. It was not a place of grand events or bustling streets. Life here was slow, predictable—a steady rhythm of days turning into years, of people coming and going, of time quietly shaping the stone paths and worn wooden doors.
And yet, Death lived among them.
Ezra had been here as long as anyone could remember, though no one questioned that fact. He was the gravedigger—the one who ensured the dead had their final resting places, the solitary figure who moved through the cemetery with the certainty of someone who belonged to it.
Tall and broad-shouldered, Ezra carried the weight of his work without effort. His black hair was perpetually unruly, strands falling across his forehead as he worked, though he never seemed to care. His grey eyes were cold—not cruel, but distant, like the overcast sky before a storm. His skin, pale as stone, never warmed beneath the sun, as if the touch of life had long abandoned him. The people spoke of him only in passing, their words laced with quiet acceptance.
"Ezra dug another grave today."
"Saw Ezra in town this morning—he never stays long."
He was more shadow than man in their eyes. Useful, necessary, but distant.
And yet, Life had made a home here too.
At the edge of the town square sat Lior's herb shop, its windows glowing softly in the morning light. Where Ezra was silence, Lior was warmth—a presence that settled into the lives of those around him like the first breath of spring.
He was slighter than Ezra, lean in a way that spoke of quiet movement rather than brute strength. His hair was almost white, catching the sunlight like silver threads, always slightly tousled from the wind that rolled down the mountains. His eyes—light green, ever vibrant—held something soft, something knowing. His skin was warm to the touch, carrying the lingering scent of rosemary, earth, and blooming things.
People spoke of him with familiarity, with trust.
"Lior's tea helped my sleep."
"His remedies are stronger than anything the apothecary has."
And so, the gravedigger and the herbalist coexisted—woven into the town's fabric in ways no one questioned. No one knew what they truly were. No one knew that one carried the weight of every passing soul, and the other, the breath of every life that persisted.
But they knew each other.
And that was enough.
***
Ezra pushed open the door to Lior's shop, stepping into warmth. The scent of rosemary and drying herbs wrapped around him, settling in the quiet hum of the space. Lior looked up from the counter, his pale hair catching the light, his fingers moving with careful precision as he bundled fresh sprigs with twine. His gaze met Ezra's—steady, unbothered, amused.
"You need to stop."
"Stop what?"
Ezra set the bundle of rosemary down between them, his cold fingers brushing briefly against the wood. "This. The graves."
Lior picked up the rosemary, rolling the brittle sprigs between his fingers. "It's only remembrance."
"It's pointless. The dead don't care."
Lior hummed thoughtfully, watching Ezra the way someone might watch the shifting of seasons—curious, knowing. "No, they don't," he agreed easily. "But the living do."
Ezra clenched his jaw. He shouldn't be here. Shouldn't care. And yet, he was always here, returning the bundles. Letting the scent of rosemary cling to his clothes longer than it should. Lior tilted his head, the faintest trace of amusement flickering in his gaze. "If you truly wanted me to stop, you'd throw them away."
Ezra scoffed, turning for the door before the words could settle too deep. "Just stop."
"I don't think I will," Lior murmured, too quiet for Ezra to argue.
The town square was behind him, but the scent of rosemary lingered—a ghost of Lior's shop clinging to his coat, his skin, his thoughts. Ezra walked in silence, the crisp air threading through his hair, settling into the space between his ribs.
It was always quiet here.
The cemetery stretched before him, rows of gravestones standing in silent vigil beneath the grey sky. Ezra had dug them himself—his hands pressing into the earth, shaping the resting places for people who had long ceased to need them. He did not care for names. He did not care for stories. He was not cruel, but he did not hold onto the dead the way others did.
Lior did.
Ezra crouched beside the newest grave, pressing his palm to the soil. Cold. Still. Unmoving. The way things were meant to be.
But the rosemary bundles kept appearing, tied with careful twine, left with thought and purpose. Ezra could imagine Lior's hands—warm, deliberate, lingering as he placed them. Did he think it changed anything? Did he think it meant something?
Ezra exhaled sharply, dragging his hand through his hair. He should have thrown them away. Should have left them to wither, ignored them, let time strip them down to brittle stems and dust. Instead, he returned them.
Every time.
Not because he cared. Not because he thought Lior was right.
Just habit.
Just irritation.
Just—
Ezra clenched his fists, shaking his head. He stood, looking over the cemetery, over the quiet stones that held nothing but history.
Lior was wrong.
Remembrance did not matter.
Ezra repeated the thought, like a mantra, like something he needed to believe.
And yet, the scent of rosemary still clung to him.