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A rain-soaked American cemetery at dawn, overcast Pacific Northwest sky, soft gray light filtering through tall evergreen trees. A man in his mid-fifties, white American, wearing a dark wool coat, stands frozen on a gravel path, staring ahead. Twenty feet away, a young woman in her early twenties, white American, thin and pale, kneels at a small granite headstone, her arms wrapped around it, her oversized jacket soaked through. Rain beads on both of them. The man takes three slow steps forward, gravel crunching beneath his shoes. The woman lifts her head — her green eyes catching the gray light, distant and tear-glazed, still lost in her own grief. He says, voice breaking, "Who are you?" She answers automatically, almost to herself, gaze still drifting toward the headstone: "He's my brother." Then a long pause. Her expression shifts — the distant look fades, her brow tightens slightly, a flicker of confusion crosses her face as the question registers. She turns her head back to him slowly, eyes narrowing, now fully present and guarded. She studies this stranger's face for a beat — why is he asking, why does he care — and says, quieter, sharper: "And you?" Close-up on his face — his jaw trembles, his eyes fill with tears, he opens his mouth but no sound comes out at first. He looks away for a split second, fighting to hold it together, then looks back at her and says, voice barely holding, thick with emotion: "I don't even know how to say this." His chin quivers, a tear breaks free down his cheek. He can't finish. The camera holds on the silence between them — her guarded confusion, his shattering composure. No logos, no brand names, no watermarks, no text overlays, no subtitles. Cinematic, realistic, grounded tone.