The morning after the funeral, the sky over the cemetery was a flat, overcast gray, the kind that makes every sound seem muffled. I walked among the rows of stones, the crunch of my heels on the gravel echoing in the quiet. The wind carried the scent of damp earth and distant pine, a smell that reminded me of childhood trips to my grandparents’ house.
I had organized everything. I remember the way the florist’s hands trembled as they arranged the lilies—white, pure, but with a hint of green at the edges, like they were trying to hide something. My mother’s voice, soft and strained, floated over the phone as I coordinated with the cemetery office. I watched my own reflection in the polished black coffin, the veil clinging to my face, and wondered how many people had imagined this moment when they first heard about our engagement.
Friends arrived, their faces a mixture of shock and sympathy. Jenna, my college roommate, clutched a small box of macarons, her eyes red from crying. She kept fumbling with the lid, as if the simple act of opening a box could somehow reverse the tragedy.
Only one member of Karl’s family showed up: his cousin, Mark. He was a lanky man with a perpetual five‑o’clock shadow, dressed in a cheap, faded blazer that seemed out of place among the mourners. He stood by the casket, his eyes fixed on the ground, his hands twisting a cheap silver ring on his finger.
When I tried to ask about Karl’s parents, my voice was a hoarse whisper.
“Where are they?” I asked Mark, the words barely making it past my lips.
He stared at me, his gaze flickering to the polished wood of the coffin, then back to my face.
“They… they had a huge argument years ago. They never spoke again.”
His tone was flat, as if he were reciting a line from a script. I felt a knot tighten in my throat. I had never heard Karl talk about his family beyond the vague, dismissive comments he made when I pressed him. He would always change the subject, laugh it off, or say, “It doesn’t matter.”
Later, after the service, I approached Mark again, hoping for more.
“What mistake?” I asked, my voice barely audible over the rustling of leaves.
He hesitated, his eyes darting toward the exit. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the stone path.
That night, the house felt too big, the silence too loud. I couldn’t bear the sight of Karl’s empty side of the bed, the way his pillow still held the faint imprint of his head. I packed a small backpack—just a change of clothes, a notebook, a half‑full bottle of water—and left the house before dawn, the streetlights casting long shadows on the wet pavement.w
The Bus Ride
The bus was a battered, yellow‑green vehicle that rattled over the highway like an old train. I found a seat by the window, the glass fogged from the chill outside. I watched the world blur past—fields of golden wheat, a lone oak tree swaying in the wind, the occasional farmhouse with a porch light flickering.
