Serena
The hall smelled of smoke and lilies. Too sweet, too heavy. My mother had hated lilies. She always said their scent clung too long, like a ghost that wouldn’t leave. Now they surrounded her coffin in suffocating wreaths, mocking her with every breath I took.
I stood at the edge of the aisle, staring at the polished wood, my fingers trembling around the black shawl draped across my shoulders. My knees wanted to give, but I forced them to lock. I couldn’t collapse here, not in front of everyone, not when they were watching me.
Every whisper in the crowd burned against my skin.
The daughter returned, only to bury her mother.
How cruel the fates can be.
I insisted we brought her back here to lay her to rest among her ancestors. This was her home until shame threw her out . I didn’
