Near midnight, Kafui returned once more to Boris’s grave.
The cemetery stood silent beneath pale moonlight.
She approached slowly.
And there, resting gently atop the grave, was the palm broom.
But it no longer looked new.
The once-bright palm fronds were darkened and stained deep red.
As though soaked in blood.
Kafui closed her eyes silently.
For the first time since her son’s death, the air around the grave felt peaceful.
The wind softened.
The heaviness disappeared.
Somewhere in the darkness, an owl cried softly.
And then Kafui finally whispered:
“Rest now, my son.”
