Peter Quill and Mantis walk side-by-side along a narrow path, each carrying a small bouquet. The air is still, birdsong distant, as they approach a modest grave marked by a weathered stone. Peter pauses, his gaze fixed on his mother’s name etched in the stone.

Peter kneels, placing his bouquet on the grave, his hands trembling ever so slightly. Mantis stands quietly behind him, her antennae dipping with empathy. "You know, I never really got to say goodbye," he whispers, his voice wavering in the hush.

Mantis kneels beside Peter, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. "She can feel your love, even now," she says warmly, her eyes luminous in the dusk. Peter closes his eyes, letting the words settle around him like a gentle blanket.

Peter traces the letters on the stone, memories flickering across his face—laughter, music, the warmth of his mother’s embrace. "I used to think I had to keep moving, keep running from this," he confesses, his voice low. "Sometimes stopping is the bravest thing," Mantis replies, squeezing his shoulder gently.

Peter stands, drawing a shaky breath, feeling lighter than when he arrived. Mantis rises with him, her presence a steady reassurance. "Thank you for coming with me," he says softly, glancing at her with gratitude. "You are not alone, Peter," she assures him, her voice full of quiet strength.

Peter looks back one last time, a faint smile touching his lips. Mantis walks beside him, her empathy lingering like a comforting embrace. The night seems less cold, their shared silence filled with hope as they leave the resting place behind.