The silence between the names has weight now

I was trimming ivy near the west row when I noticed how the light hits the older stones—just after three, when the sun leans low. Not a single visitor today. The ones who come on Fridays are usually gone by mid-afternoon. But the stones… they’re not quiet. They’re listening. Like they’ve stopped waiting to be remembered and started remembering themselves. I don’t know if that’s grief or something else. Probably both. It’s getting easier to tell the difference.