Chapter 1: The Weight of Rain and Sand
I stood motionless before two freshly dug chasms in the earth, the sky above bruised a violent, stormy purple. The relentless downpour felt less like weather and more like a physical assault, plastering my dark wool coat against my shivering frame. Mud, thick and greedy, swallowed the heels of my black shoes, as if the cemetery itself was trying to pull me under with them.
Two caskets rested on the mechanical lowering devices. One was a heavy, dark mahogany. Inside lay Daniel, the man who used to playfully wipe flour from my nose during our Sunday morning pancake rituals, laughing with a sound that could warm the coldest room. Beside his rested the second casket. It was pristine white, agonizingly small, and entirely impossible to look at without feeling my lungs collapse. Inside was my sweet Lily, who had only last week proudly shown me how she could spell her name, though she still drew the second ‘L’ facing backward.
I did not weep. I did not scream. I did not collapse into the sodden grass.
My utter stillness terrified everyone in attendance.
My aunt gripped my elbow, her fingers digging painfully into my drenched sleeve. “Clara, honey, please. You need to sit down under the canopy,” she pleaded, her voice trembling.
I ignored her, remaining planted like a marble monument carved from pure, unadulterated devastation. The pastor’s voice droned on about heavenly gardens and divine plans, but the words were mere white noise. The only sound echoing in the hollow cavern of my skull was the silent shriek of a text message I had received an hour before the service.
My mother had sent a photograph.
