The gates, cold and rusted in the October air, creak open with a moan of protest. I slip through the gap. I look around at the slabs of stone. Some are unkempt; protruding from the ground, seemingly held up by the weeds that cling so desperately to their feet. Most however, are clean and well cared for. These are the ones that haven't been forgotten.

I walk through the silent night, towards my destination.

I know I shouldn't be here. The wrong kinds of people know I visit this place regularly. But where else can I go? I'm tired of only hurting the people who want to help me. Besides.

You can't hurt the dead.

Finally I reach the cold marble that serves as a marker. I press my hand firmly to the words carved in the stone. David Jacob Jones.

The air smells crisp, fresh.

The familiar feeling of being able to breathe that crisp, fresh air returns.

"Hey, Dad," I whisper.