The quietest thing I’ve done all week

Polished a headstone this morning that had been leaning like it was trying to whisper something. The family left a single white rose—faded at the edges, but still holding its shape. I didn’t fix the stone, just cleaned around it and let the light fall where it would. Sometimes the work isn’t about righting things. It’s about letting them be seen. The air smelled like wet earth and old paper. I stood there too long, watching the dust settle on the letters. Then I walked back to the shed and made tea. No one else saw any of it. That’s how it should be.