It was late afternoon. The clouds hung low and bruised, and the sea below kept throwing itself against the rocks like it had a grudge.

Halfway down the gravel access road, a dark blue Aston Martin sat abandoned. Its front bumper was crumpled against a wooden fence post. The driver's door hung open. Nobody had touched it in three days.

A single peony lay on the gravel in front of the headlight, wilted and rain-flattened.

At the very edge of the cliff, a low iron railing rusted and sagged. Beyond it, the ground simply stopped.

It was quiet. Just the wind, the gulls, and the water.

Then — footsteps. Slow. Measured. Coming up the gravel path from the direction of the parking lot.

A tall figure in a black wool coat walked unhurried, hands buried deep in his pockets. He didn't look like he was here to grieve.