Someone to Talk To

The cemetery sat on the edge of town, behind a cracked wrought-iron gate that never quite latched. Gerald liked it that way. If the gate squeaked open late at night, it wasn’t his business. The living came during the day. The others never gave him any trouble.

He came in early each morning with a thermos of coffee and a slow limp, settling into the caretaker’s shed for a minute before starting his rounds. The grass always needed trimming. Leaves always needed raking. Headstones leaned more each year, like tired old men. Gerald found comfort in the repetition. It gave shape to the silence.

“Morning, Irene,” he muttered as he passed a headstone shaped like an open book. “Hope those grandkids finally came to visit.” He said it every week. No one had been by that grave in over a year.

He talked to everyone. Not because he believed they could hear him. Just made things feel less... gone.

That’s why he noticed the man on the bench.

A few weeks back, someone new had started showing up. Middle-aged, neatly dressed, always in a long, dark coat no matter the weather. He sat on the bench near the mausoleums every morning, hands resting in his lap like he was waiting for something—or someone. Gerald had nodded at him the first few times, maybe grunted a hello. On the fourth morning, the man spoke.

“Nice work on the lawn.”

Gerald looked up. “Try keeping crabgrass off a 14-acre graveyard. Losing battle.”

The man smiled politely. “I wouldn’t know. I was more into numbers than nature.”

“Banker?”

“Accountant.”

They fell into something like a routine. Gerald raked. The man watched. They commented on the squirrels tearing up the flower beds, the absurdity of solar-powered angel statues, and how nobody carved headstones like they used to—clean lines, deep letters. These days, it all looked like laser printing on granite.

One morning, Gerald brought two coffees. The man took his cup without hesitation, nodded his thanks, and held it like it mattered. Gerald noticed he never actually drank it, but didn’t say anything. Not right away.

“Name’s Gerald,” he said after a long silence.

“Tom.”

That was it. No last names. No fuss. Just Tom.

Tom never looked especially sad, which Gerald found odd. Most people who lingered in cemeteries had that hollowed-out look—like their grief had carved them from the inside out. But Tom just sat. Calm. Patient. Like he had all the time in the world.

“You got someone here?” Gerald asked once, nodding toward the rows of headstones.

Tom’s eyes lingered over the graves. “Yeah. Sort of.”

Gerald didn’t push. Some folks talked when they were ready. Others never were.

Still, things didn’t quite add up. For one, Tom never aged. Gerald had been doing this job nearly three years now, and Tom looked exactly the same as the day they met. Not a wrinkle. Not a grey hair. Not even a smudge on that damn coat. Gerald had gone through three pairs of boots and at least one heart scare in that time.

And then there were little things. Tom never sat down while Gerald was looking. He’d just… already be there. Once, Gerald dropped his wrench and bent to pick it up, and when he stood again, Tom was suddenly next to him. Quiet as stone.

And he always showed up at the same time. Not a minute off.

One morning in early summer, Gerald took a seat next to him instead of walking by. They sat in companionable silence for a while.

“You believe in second chances?” Tom asked out of nowhere.

Gerald blinked. “At what?”

“Anything, I guess.”

He thought about it. “I don’t think life hands 'em out easy. But people try. I’ve known folks who cleaned up, patched things with their kids. Never perfect, but better.”

Tom nodded. “Better’s something.”

A pause.

“I always figured I’d have more time,” he added quietly.

“Don’t we all,” Gerald said, and felt a tug in his chest he didn’t care to name.

That fall, Tom started humming sometimes. Old songs. Fragments of them. Tinny, warbly little tunes from another time. Gerald didn’t recognize most, but once, he caught the melody of a lullaby his mother used to sing. He hadn’t heard it in over fifty years. He said nothing. Just watched a crow land on a headstone and wondered how Tom knew it.

The wind got sharper. Leaves curled at the edges. Cold settled in, slow and steady.

One morning, Tom was already seated, cup in hand. Gerald took his place beside him.

“You always sit so still,” he said after a moment.

Tom smiled without turning. “You ever notice how quiet it is here?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“No—I mean really quiet. It’s like time forgets to move.”

Gerald didn’t respond. Something in his gut felt… off. Like standing in a room you know you locked and finding the door open.

That winter, a storm came through. Took down a chunk of the east fence. Gerald had to come in at two in the morning with a flashlight and a shovel. He was cursing his knees and the wind when the light passed over the bench—and caught on a familiar figure.

Tom.

Same coat. Same posture. No hat, no gloves. Just sitting there.

Gerald froze. “Tom? What the hell are you doing here?”

No answer. Tom looked out at the snow-covered graves like always, but his breath didn’t fog in the cold. The wind tugged at Gerald’s jacket. His flashlight flickered.

He took a step forward.

When the beam swung back, the bench was empty.

Not a mark in the snow.

Tom didn’t come back in the spring.

Gerald waited. The crocuses bloomed. Birds returned. But the bench stayed empty.

He still brought two coffees.

He didn’t know why. Habit, maybe. Or hope.

One afternoon, while clearing ivy from an overgrown hedge, he caught sight of a headstone he didn’t remember seeing before. Pushed the branches back.

Thomas L. Whitmore

1968–2014

Beloved husband, clever fool, gentle soul.

Gerald stood there a long time.

“Ten years, huh,” he muttered. “Guess I’m not much for noticing things either.”

The next morning, he set the second thermos beside the grave.

Later that week, he returned to the bench. Sat alone. The trees rustled above him. Birds flitted past.

“You know, Tom,” he said to the air, “next time you haunt someone, pick a guy who trims the damn bushes more often.”

The breeze picked up. Leaves skittered across the grass. The thermos beside him shifted—barely—but enough to make a soft clink against the wood.

Gerald smiled.

And sat a while longer.