The wind found every hollow of Greenwood Cemetery and loved them like a secret. It slid through headstones, rattled plastic flowers, moved the thin edges of Arthur Graf's jacket until the old man hunched his shoulders against it. He hummed under his breath — a warbling, tuneless thing Kali would recognize anywhere — and kept scrubbing. Kali watched from three feet away. She could see the soap foam bead along Arthur's fingers, could memorize the exact way his knuckles knotted when he scrubbed a plaque too hard. She knew every jawline etched in that plot of earth, every cracked vase, every chipped angel. She knew the cemetery’s schedule the way the living knew bus timetables. Ten years of being present and powerless had taught her the calendar of a place where people came to leave and rarely returned. Her form was the color of a late dawn fog: translucent at the edges, solid enough in the middle to cast a suggestion of shadow. She could hover. She could listen. She could feel the cold like a second skin. She could not touch. The rule that kept her here was ugly and simple: unfinished business. She’d told herself she had none, but the truth loosened like an old bruise whenever she watched Arthur stain his fingers on her stone. "You're doing too much," the cemetery supervisor barked from the road, voice like gravel. "We got a schedule, Arthur. Move it." Arthur's hands slowed. He lifted his head