"Hey baby," Callie murmured. "I bought you flowers."

She paused, as if wishing there'd be an answer, knowing there wouldn't.

Why do people bring flowers to a grave? Seems pointless to me.

She'd asked him that once as they'd watched Joe make his way over the graveyard.

She'd felt insensitive, but in reality she just wanted to get her mind off the pain.

Because when people want to give someone something when they feel sorry for them, you know? You're helpless, but you want to make them feel better.

Callie hugged herself, remembering his touch.

Let them know they're not forgotten.

"Everyone's doing really well," she murmured, brushing dirt from the concrete, her fingertips hesitating on the letters of Frank's name. "Vanessa and I are still best friends, and the guys are having a blast at college. I am too, but I'm studying more. Chet and I have been talking a lot more now. We're…trying to help Joe." She paused and swallowed. "I guess you know about him, huh?"

She shivered suddenly and looked about her; the graveyard was barren, the sky clouded, the gate open but stationary. She could have sworn she'd felt someone near her, but shook it off as wishful thinking.

What do you think, he's going to resurrect all of a sudden? This isn't a movie, Shaw.

"You're mother's having a hard time, but Vanessa's gone to visit her a few times. And your Dad started helping on some cases again. Minor ones, but still…it's a start. And your Aunt is Gertrude. She's holding up. It's just…Joe. But I guess that can be expected, huh?"

Her voice caught suddenly, and she pulled her hand away from the stone as it began to tremble.

"The truth is…none of us know how to help him," she whispered. "You know how he can get Frank. That's just it baby, you knew best. And I'm so scared. I'm so scared for him, and for your family, and for all of us, because we'll carry his blood on our hands if we lose him but I don't know how to save him and…"

Tears bit her eyes, and she sank her teeth into her lip, thinking of the energy that had long faded from the younger Hardy's eyes, the non-stop drive to explore, to investigate, to play, to help. She remembered him at the funeral: eyes bloodshot, hair a mess, shoulders hopelessly slumped, not once raising his face to watch the ceremony, to look at the coffin. She remembered seeing the first scratches appear along his arm, scabbed over red, and the excuses: I was cleaning the basement…moving furniture…playing basketball…never did he say the truth: I'm cutting myself.

It had been the first time she'd failed him. Failed them both.  

"I love you," she murmured a moment later. "I'll…fix this, Frank. I promise."

She arranged the flowers at the base of the stone.