At some point, she forgets what they're here for.

ROSBURG
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Rosburg had been abandoned for three years now. Fourteen year old Adele was terrified and confused arriving at a ghost town whisked in complete silence when she's so used to seeing familiar faces wandering its streets. Who knew her as the girl who visits the grave. Who gave her meals at the inn she always stayed.

They were starving somewhat, but she couldn't do much about it then.

They ride underneath the overpass, identical green signage mars the side of their entry.

Here it's completely barren and laid waste from the mound of dirt they surveyed downtown from. Apartments crumbled and complexes toppled over which closed off the route she usually takes so they had to do a detour a couple blocks down from the site.

The sun is covered by clouds so she can't really tell what time it is, not that she could ever tell with any amount of precision but the sky is dreary and their bikes are squeaking. They leave it outside, leaning against brick pillars and metal arch. Olivia reaches for her hand.

It's a mildly comforting gesture, and Adele appreciates it by rubbing her thumb on her skin. In the other, they're both holding the collection of flowers they're supposed to give.

The graveyard is unkempt. They walk through the spiraling path threatening to be consumed whole by nature and regrown souls.

It's not that big, but it's pretty far inside, retracing the same steps she took when she was younger. She tightens her fingers around Olivia's, points at the section she's headed. They're here, but not yet.

"I'll uh, give you some privacy," Olivia says, excuses herself to a corner of some random guy who died in the 70s. She doesn't look one bit out of place.

Adele approaches as she does, slow and languid and meticulous.

She's laying down in her Eden about 30 paces east from the cascading willow tree. The gravestone reads: Anya Douglas, beloved mother and grandmother. One of these days Adele might change her name to her mother's maiden name. Not like her father could protest to the change.

"Hey, grandma." Adele kneels, put the picked wildflowers atop her grave. "Pretty sulky morning huh?"

The breeze answers in her place. She tucks a kink of hair behind her ear. "It's been a year, I think," she muses. "I mean, I hope it's the same date— I can't tell if someone messed up counting somewhere along the line. It's still summer at least. That's the only constant, ever."

Adele glances around. "Rosburg is always windy though. Which is weird because I don't remember the weather acting up when you were still here."

She chuckles, takes a moment to regain her breath, changes the subject like she's supposed to. "You remember Olivia? I told you about her last year."

"Well, she came, she wants to. She's um, over there." Adele points behind her. It almost looks like Olivia's trying to burn the flowers she picked from where she squats against smoothstone. "Near that cross."

"I still like girls. I don't know why I'm telling you that like you— I mean, I know— You'd accept me," she says finally, with a weaker conviction than she would've liked. "I think mom found out. I'm not exactly being subtle about it? But what is she gonna do right? I already told Olivia about leaving.

Honestly, I don't know where we'd even go. There's always Meltwood— big city, meet celebrities. Oh! I offered this lady too— she sells soap in Romsey— I offered her a ride to Covina. So y'know, we could probably hang out there for a while after I help her move.

Woah.

Stop. Flying. Away— flower, stay.

Okay.

Anyways, there's this poem that I read, like, three weeks ago? I wrote it down here, somewhere. Hold on.

I'll read it to you.

Birthday Poem for My Grandmother
Sharon Olds

       I stood on the porch tonight― which way do we
       face to talk to the dead? I thought of the
       new rose, and went out over the
       grey lawn― things really
       have no color at night. I descended
       the stone steps, as if to the place where one
       speaks to the dead. The rose stood
       half-uncurled, glowing white in the
       black air. Later I remembered
       your birthday. You would have been ninety and
       getting roses from me. Are the dead there
       if we do not speak to them?
       When I came to see you
       you were always sitting quietly in the chair,
       not knitting, because of the arthritis,
       not reading, because of the blindness,
       just sitting. I never knew how you
       did it or what you were thinking. Now I
       sometimes sit on the porch, waiting,
       trying to feel you there like the color of the
       flowers in the dark.

It's a bit much, isn't it?

Maybe because I suck at reading these. I mean, you don't have arthritis, or blindness. But it's the sentiment that matters, grandma.

You raised a sentimental me, I'm a bit dumb too but I think that's not your fault― that's on me.

Y'know I always imagine conversations with you at night, before sleeping. I have a lot to say, but I can't think of anything off the top of my head, now that I'm here. You listen either way though."

She sighs.

"Do you want to talk to Olivia? I can call her over."

Adele adjusts her knees on the bare ground, soft soil, gives it some room to breathe. "Olivia," she calls out and her voice carries so well in the silence, it's almost eerie, echoing faintly compared to the meadow.

Olivia perks up from her daze, almost burns off her thumb in the process. She pockets her lighter and sucks on it, makes her way over. Adele stands up next to her so she doesn't have to kneel with those stockings.

She was about to say, 'You can say hi to my grandma,' before realizing, no, Olivia probably has little experience talking to dead people, especially one that would've required an interaction alive.

"She's doing well," she informs her.

"Is she?" Olivia turns to the grave in what would be the equivalent of eye contact, until she notices that she's just reading the stone for the first time. "That's good isn't it?" she asks meekly, like she's unsure but it's really just playing along.

Adele nods noncommittally. "You can put the flowers there," she says, gesturing to where she propped hers up against the headstone, framing the text and supported by skirmishes of dirt. It ended up getting underneath her nails.

"Wouldn't the wind blow it off though?"

"That happens all the time. It's the sentiment that counts," she echoes sheepishly.

Olivia does as she's told, crouches carefully and positions the flowers with a more artistic vision, from the way she puffs up the distance between them and rearranges specific parts until she's happy with it.

"Do you ever talk to your ancestors?"

"We're not close," Olivia answers, disappointed almost and shrugs, "But sometimes, yeah."

"Do you want to uh, talk to my grandma?" Adele throws it out there anyway, immediately regrets it.

Olivia makes a sorry face like she wants to say no, but is looking for the words that she could use to weave her way out of hurt feelings and awkward standstill. Too late, it already is.

"No― yeah, it's fine. It's weird."

"Yeah, kinda. Sorry Mrs. Douglas," she tries, then caves into Adele like she wants to hide behind her, even if it's a dead person she's shy with. It's hard not to find it endearing, Adele huddles together all the same.

She snorts. Olivia can't keep her composure. So they put some distance between them almost like a whisper so Anya doesn't listen in.

"No, why're you laughing," Adele nudges into her when she keeps laughing for no other reason than embarrassed somehow, tries holding onto her hands. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing's funny!"

"Olivia, this is a graveyard." Not that it's inappropriate, they're not really disrespecting its tenants and all Olivia does is smile amused at who knows what. "You're giving young-ins bad name. Dead people from the 70s are tutting at you," ―she points at a random name― "George is tutting at you."

"Okay!" she sputters out, blows out a breath. "I'm okay."

Adele examines her a little further, pulls her face closer. There is a time and place for this. A grin grows on her face and Olivia bites down on her lip, bites down the temptation. Adele laughs this time, at the awkwardness of it all, at talking to dead, at how hard Olivia was trying.

She turns back to Anya, offers an apologetic smile.

"What was she like?" There's still a shake to her voice but Olivia manages.

Adele realizes no one had never asked that because no one was really around to ask, because she'd rather not pick up lines from a movie. But maybe they're living in one and Adele just has to humor her.

"Warm," she says at first, closes her eyes, imagines yellow memories, sees the imperfections in the film. Adele thinks about the eulogy she would've given if she wasn't so young or ineloquent.

"She makes me eggs sunny side up,"— she's the feeling of breakfast— "When my mother dropped me off at her place in the summer," taking care of me when she didn't want to. "She braided my hair, taught me how to knit. She was damn good at it."

Olivia is silent. It's a well thought out response, or she just listens as she always does. The look on her face is intent, Adele feels a slow circling weight in her chest. She wants to kiss her, she'd admit that as much. She came close, a few times.

"I told her about you."

"Really?"

"Of course," she says, "She needs to know all about you."