There’s a somber mood in the car as we drive across town to the Ninth Order of Angels Catholic Church.

Kitty doesn’t ask me about what happened at the shops. She doesn’t need to – it’s pretty clear what went down.

A few months after the accident, after it became obvious that Mia’s parents were avoiding my mom and dad and me, I tried to see it from their perspective. I realized that every time they looked at me, they were seeing the girl who survived instead of Mia. How many times had they wished in the small lonely dark hours of the night for history to rewrite itself? For me to be at the bottom of the ocean with the others, while their daughter got to live on instead? How fervently had they bargained, begged, prayed?

I forgave them long ago, but they clearly haven’t yet forgiven themselves.

A flock of blackbirds noisily flies out of a tall cypress tree as we park in front of the church.

The parking lot is empty. It’s not surprising – apart from on Sunday mornings, the pretty little stone church is as quiet as the graveyard behind it.

“I’ll wait in the car,” Kitty says.

I nod, stepping out and closing the door behind me.

I walk around the side of the church, following a thin cobblestone path through the carpet of moss and leaves. The sun is low in the sky, and soft late afternoon light dapples the way, illuminating the fallen golden leaves like pooling sunbeams.

I stop before a black wrought iron fence topped with tarnished bronze spikes, which runs on a straight line on either side of me as far as the eye can see, before disappearing into the forest.

Behind it, the city of the dead stretches out into the distance.

Weathered limestone crosses, mausoleums, moss-encrusted tombstones, marble angels whiter than moonlit snow.

And at the heart of it all, Mia.

I follow the path along the fence until I reach the visitor’s gate. There are cobwebs all over the latch, and it’s wet to the touch, as if there’s slime or algae growing on the iron.

When was the last time anyone visited this place?

It’s not a popular parish – bordering on Forest Park, it’s a bit too far out of town for most people. And as far as I know, new burials in the church graveyard are rare. Mia was only buried here because it’s the final resting place of several generations of her devoutly Catholic family.

I unlatch the gate and step though.

A shiver immediately runs down my spine as my feet touch the graveyard soil.

Maybe it’s only because the cemetery is in the shadow of the forest, but it feels immediately colder and darker on this side of the fence.

I follow a lightly trampled path, noticing that there are no flowers in sight, except for the fragile snowdrops sprouting like white ghosts between the headstones. Usually in a graveyard, you’d expect to see bunches of flowers in various stages of decay placed on at least some of the graves by mourners. But the graves are bare, neglected, forgotten. I don't remember them looking so decrepit.

I pass a group of elaborately carved grey granite stones under a circle of weeping willows before spotting the name I’ve been looking for.

Robbins.

Mia’s family members have always been buried on this family plot. I cast my eyes over the weathered headstones, running my fingers over the cold smooth stone as I pick my way between the graves.

In everliving memory of Alexander Christian Robbins, 1922 – 1934. Remembered with love.

Here lies Abigail “Joss” Robbins, wife of Bradford, 1859 – 1903. She walked in beauty.

Benjamin Hugh Robbins, 1927 – 2009. With the angels now.

I pause in front of this last grave. This is the third time I’ve been right here, in this very spot. The first time was six years ago for the burial of Ben, Mia’s grandfather. Even though we weren’t related by blood, he was like family. The second time was when I came to visit Mia’s grave a month after the accident, and I stopped here and placed a single white lily on Ben’s headstone.

I remember how I felt on that day. Utterly numb, like I was wrapped up in thick cotton wool, floating through the misty hours. Almost two years later, that numbness is still with me.

Mia’s grave is just a few steps from her grandfather’s.

I walk to the spot, under the shade of a plum tree covered in a cloud of dark reddish-purple leaves.

It takes me a moment to comprehend what I’m seeing.

The last time I visited Mia’s grave, it was pristine, smooth stone, save for a vase of wilting primroses and various bouquets left by visitors.

What I see before me now is a crumbling, ancient headstone blanketed in silvery lichen and patches of moss. A thorny climbing rose has grown up around it, clinging to the stone and strangling it in a loving embrace. Tightly closed red buds peep out from between the leaves.

Just like when I found my bicycle after leaving it overnight in the forest, aged like it had lain there at least a hundred years. What the hell is going on?

There’s no doubt that this is Mia’s grave. Even though the dates are worn away, and the engraved letters are being swallowed by the creeping greenery, I can still make out the inscription.

Mia Alexis Robbins. A cherished daughter, forever in our hearts.

I kneel down by her graveside, reaching up and pushing aside the leaves and the thorns. I trace her name with my fingertips. The stone is rough and wet, and I feel it crumble ever so slightly where my fingers touch.

This was all I had left of her. This one stupid slab of stone. And now even that’s being taken away from me.

I bury my face in my hands, remembering how after Mia died, there was a particular thought that kept running through my mind, in a loop, on repeat.

How can all that beauty disappear so suddenly?

It sounds superficial, but I was haunted by her perfect fingernails, which she always took such care to keep manicured and long. I was haunted by the tan she’d worked so hard on all summer. I was haunted by the tumbling black hair which she always moisturized with coconut oil, and which I had filled with thin plaits just a day before the accident. I was haunted by all of it, all of that effort, the exquisite harmony of Mia’s loveliness, blossoming into a dark flower of chaos inside her coffin.

I think in those early days I focused more on the disintegration of her body to distract me from the deeper, more painful loss. It hurt too much to think about how Mia would never again read a book. She’d never listen to music again. She’d never laugh again. She’d never fall in love.

And so I kept my mind busy grieving the small losses, so that there was no space for the real, larger loss to hurt me.

As for Evan, I heard that his parents had his body cremated, and they sprinkled his ashes over their family’s farm. Even if I couldn’t visit Evan’s final resting place, I’d always taken for granted that I’ll be able to visit Mia whenever I needed for years to come. But judging by the state of the crumbling grave, within a year it’ll be no more than a pile of rubble.

I bow my head, wiping away tears. Closing my eyes, I try to picture Mia’s face.

Mia, I need you. Please help me. I don’t understand what’s going on. You always knew what to do. So tell me what to do now.

I’m not sure what I expect to happen.

“Ash?’ A voice says right next to me.

I scramble to my feet, almost falling on top of Mia’s grave as I steady myself. Kitty is standing right beside me, her face twisted in concern.

“Are you ok Ash?” She asks, reaching out and touching me lightly on the arm. “I was getting worried about you. It’s getting dark.”

She’s right. The first stars are flickering in the purplish sky, and the forest’s shadows have deepened into the twilight gloom of early evening.

“But that’s impossible,” I say. “It was just past noon and… I can’t have left the car more than a quarter of an hour ago…”

Kitty shakes her head. “No Ash. You’ve been gone almost three hours.”

Three hours? Impossible.

“Why are you in front of this old grave?” Kitty asks, casting her eyes over the dilapidated tombstone. “I thought you’d be… you know… visiting your friend.”

“This is my friend,” I say. “This is Mia. The girl I told you about.”

Kitty shakes her head. “Oh hon, no,” she says. “You’re getting mixed up. There’s no way. I mean, look at this thing.” She uses her index finger to wiggle a loose piece of stone on a crumbling corner. “This thing’s ancient. It’s probably the oldest grave in the whole graveyard. It must be a relative of hers or something. You know, an ancestor. With the same name.”

“It’s not,” I say. “This is Mia’s grave.”

Kitty’s expression is guarded.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” she says. “This has been here… what… two years?”

I nod my head.

The light is sinking quickly behind the trees. No way do I want to be stuck in a cemetery at night.

“Let’s go,” I say, turning my back on the grave. “There’s something I need to show you before it gets dark.”

“Finally,” says Kitty, following behind me. “I was waiting for you forever. I’m sure all the frozen berries I bought are melted. So much for my healthy smoothies.”

She goes on about her detox plan while I try to figure out what to do next. It feels like the hunt for answers has reached a sudden dead end.

Just as I’m giving up hope, we reach the wrought iron gate. Kitty goes through first. As I step through the gateway, over the threshold between the living and the dead, I hear a voice on the breeze.

Mia’s voice. Words spoken in a hollow, faraway whisper.

Ask the angel.