The chapel was filled with the soft, muted sounds of a hundred people trying not to cry.
It was a beautiful room. Sunlight streamed brightly through the tall, intricate stained-glass windows, casting colorful, fractured patterns of blue, gold, and red across the heavy wooden pews. The air smelled of expensive floral arrangements—white lilies and pale roses—and the faint, dusty scent of old hymnals.
At the very front of the room, in the center of the first row, Ronan sat alone.
He was sitting perfectly straight, his back rigid, his hands folded neatly in his lap. He was surrounded by a sea of people, yet he looked entirely isolated. Mark was sitting directly behind him, leaning forward slightly, as if ready to reach out and catch his best friend the moment he started to fall. Across the
