THE TOMBSTONE (Melancholy) PRESENT DAY.   He stands before the tombstone, motionless, lost in thought. The sky above is a muted gray, a heavy overcast mirroring the weight in his chest. His eyes, swollen and red from crying, are fixed on the name etched into the stone. The wind stirs gently, but it does little to break the stillness around him.   “I never saw it coming,” he whispers, his voice broken, barely audible over the distant rustle of the trees. The words hang in the air like a confession, but to whom? Himself? The person beneath the