The chapel doors were heavier than I remembered, as if the building itself had decided grief should require effort.
I paused with my hand on the brass handle, listening to the faint hum of the heater and the soft shuffle of someone moving inside. Outside, November air had that metallic bite it always carried, a cold that made your nostrils sting and turned every breath into a thin ribbon of mist. The sky was the color of wet cement, flat and undecided, as if even the weather couldn’t commit to what kind of day it wanted to be.
I stepped in.
Warmth hit me first, but it didn’t feel comforting. It felt stale, like heat that had been trapped too long. The chapel smelled of furniture polish and lilies, a sweetness so thick it made the back of my throat tighten. White lilies were everywhere, their petals bright against the dark wood, their perfume insistently cheerful in the way grief people always seemed to be. As if sweetness could blunt the fact of death.
It couldn’t.
Near the front, the funeral director adjusted a ribbon, then leaned to straighten a spray of flowers around George’s mahogany casket. The wood was glossy, rich, and dignified. George would have approved of that. He would have run his fingertips along the smooth surface and nodded once, satisfied that even in the end, nothing had been done cheaply or carelessly.
I stood in the doorway longer than necessary, my black dress feeling too tight around my ribs, as if it had shrunk overnight. The fabric was familiar, the one George liked because he said it made my eyes look like storm clouds right before rain. He used to say it with that half-smile he reserved for flirting, even after decades of marriage. Even after life had dulled the edges of romance into something quieter and sturdier.
The empty chairs behind me pulled at my attention, like a hand tugging my sleeve.
Twenty-four seats. Polished oak. Deep burgundy cushions. Neatly arranged, waiting.
Not a single body filled them.
I had expected, foolishly, that the absence might be temporary. That maybe traffic had slowed them, or a child had spilled something in the car, or someone had taken a wrong turn. I had expected the sound of footsteps, hurried and apologetic, the rustle of coats being shrugged off, the murmur of relatives greeting each other softly.
But the room was silent except for the heater and the funeral director’s careful movements.
Just me. Alone.
The funeral director glanced up and approached with the soft step of a man trained to move quietly around sorrow. He was middle-aged, gray at the temples, with eyes that looked kind even when his mouth stayed neutral.
“Mrs. Holloway?” he asked gently. “We can wait a few more minutes if you’d like. Sometimes people run a bit late.”
I looked down the rows again. Empty. Every one of them.
My throat tightened, but my voice came out steadier than I felt.
“No,” I said. “Start the service. George hated tardiness.”
The funeral director nodded once, a flicker of relief crossing his face. He had expected tears or a collapse, I could tell. He had expected me to ask for more time, to cling to the possibility that my children might still come.
I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me beg for what should have been automatic.
George would have hated that too.
In the final weeks, when cancer had hollowed him until his cheeks looked carved and his hands seemed too large for his arms, he still insisted on routine. He’d lined his pill bottles in a row like soldiers, each one facing forward. He’d insisted the news come on at six, even if he was too tired to follow the stories. He’d asked me to place his slippers side by side by the bed each night, as if order could hold back chaos.
He believed in showing up. In doing what you said you would do. In being the kind of person other people could count on.
I had loved him for that.
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