Small Acts
The Second Grave

Two Stones

August 25, 2026 · Part 2 of 10 · 2 min

He climbed up into the cab slow, joints complaining, lilies dripping onto the floor mat. Up close he smelled like wet wool and peppermint.

"Wendell," he said, not offering a hand. "Wendell Pruitt."

"Nice to meet you, Wendell." I pulled back onto the road. "You said you know my name."

"Did I."

"You did. 'I know that name,' you said."

He looked out the window like the fields were suddenly the most interesting thing he'd seen in years. "Solis is a common enough name down this county. Had a mechanic once, name of Solis. Fixed my truck for years."

That wasn't what he'd meant and we both knew it, but I let it go. Four miles isn't far enough to push a stranger.

"You walk out here every week," I said instead. "Rain or not."

"Every Tuesday. Nineteen years, come November."

"Long time to keep an appointment."

"Some appointments you don't get to skip." He said it flat, final, and turned the lilies over in his lap like he was counting the stems.

I pulled up at the Fairview gate. He thanked me, told me not to trouble myself waiting, and started up the gravel path alone, hat pulled low against the drizzle.

I should've driven off. Instead I idled at the curb, watching through the wet windshield as he stopped first at a tall granite stone near the front — CORINNE PRUITT, BELOVED WIFE — and laid half the lilies there, standing a long moment with his hand flat on the top of the stone like he was checking a pulse.

Then he did something that didn't fit. He didn't walk back to the gate.

He cut sideways, past three rows, to the far corner of the yard where the grass grew ragged and the stones were smaller, older, some sunk crooked into the ground. He crouched at one — plain, no polish, no dates carved deep enough to read from where I sat — and set the rest of the lilies down with both hands, careful, like he was tucking in a child.

I couldn't read the name. But even from the truck, through rain and forty yards of wet grass, I could make out two letters cut small and rough into the stone's face.

A. S.

My own initials, near enough, were staring back at me from a grave I'd never seen before in my life.

Continue the story Part 3: Some Things Aren't Yours →

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