Standing among weeds in an overgrown cemetery, Ianto stared at the gravestone. It was disconcerting to see his own name carved in marble, along with the dates of his birth and death, and a simple inscription.
Beloved brother and uncle
He’d been buried here almost five hundred years ago, yet thanks to a combination of Syriath, Jack blowing up the House of the Dead, and the Rift finally spitting him out again, he was standing here alive and immortal, a living paradox.
But he didn’t belong here anymore; everyone he knew was long gone.
Now he knew how Jack felt.