Morning came grey and still. A black hearse arrived at the cemetery gate and parked near the fresh grave.
Two men in pressed black suits stepped out, retrieved a sleek, disappeared coffin, and placed it atop wooden stools by the open pit.
“Make it quick, old man. We’re on a schedule,” one of them said impatiently.
Thomas frowned. “This isn’t firewood,” he said. “She deserves respect.”
The men rolled their eyes, got back in the car, and drove off, saying they’d return soon. Thomas was left alone—with the coffin, the silence, and the solemn duty of waiting.
Unseen, Lily emerged from the guardhouse and crept toward the grave. She crouched beside it, peering inside.
The woman inside was stunning, even in d.eath—pale and serene on a bed of white satin. She seemed more asleep than d.ead.
Lily turned to Thomas and said softly, “You’re not really going to bu:ry her, are you?”
Her question struck Thomas like a hammer to the chest. He staggered slightly, extinguished his cigarette, and walked toward the coffin.
Cold, yes—but not the kind of cold he knew all too well.
He placed two fingers against her neck. Waited. One heartbeat. Then another.
