That night, Greenwood Cemetery on the edge of Brooklyn was drowning beneath a relentless winter rain. The sky pressed low and heavy, so dark that the few working lamps along the narrow paths seemed to flicker in exhaustion, casting weak circles of light over soaked earth and tilted headstones. Water streamed along the stone borders like silent rivers, carrying fallen leaves into shallow pools.
No sensible person would wander into a cemetery after midnight, especially not during a storm that numbed the hands and soaked clothing to the skin. Yet under the crumbling wooden overhang of an old caretaker shed stood a man who had nowhere else to go.
