Hank had been coming here for months, ever since the news hit town: a seven-year-old boy, Alex Carter, had died alone, no family to claim him, no one to visit his grave. The child had slipped through the cracks—social workers had tried, but bureaucracy and indifference had left him forgotten.
“Not on my watch, old buddy,” Hank muttered, eyes sweeping the lonely plot. Rex thumped his tail in agreement, low and deliberate.
Hank knelt by the fresh mound of earth. He’d built a small wooden cross for Alex himself, painting it in bright colors despite the gray of the cemetery. Toys and little trinkets—an action figure, a small stuffed dog—sat on the grave, replaced weekly. To the outside world, Hank was a rough, intimidating man, but here, he was a guardian. A silent protector of the innocent.
The wind carried whispers of the past: leaves scraping over neglected tombstones, crows calling overhead. Hank’s voice was soft, almost reverent. “Alex… we’re still here. Nobody forgets you while we breathe.”
A car door slammed in the distance, snapping Hank’s attention to the gravel path. A local man, known for stirring trouble in Oakridge—Rick Dalton—ambled toward the grave with a smirk and a backpack heavy with nails and spray paint.
“You think this sad little memorial matters?” Rick sneered. “It’s just a kid. Who cares?”
Rex growled low, his hackles rising. Hank’s jaw tightened. “You step one foot closer, Dalton, and I swear…”
