Granny Bia’s funeral was grey and hollow, wrapped in the kind of silence that makes every breath feel disrespectful. People stood with stiff backs and empty eyes, waiting for it to be over. Closed casket. No photos. No display. Just a quiet burial under an unforgiving sky.
After the priest left, a woman stepped forward. She was old, but fierce—one of those sharp-edged grandmothers who looked like she’d outlived everyone by sheer force of will. Her voice was rough, the kind shaped by years of cigarettes and secrets.
“We say goodbye to our sister Bianca. Strong woman, strong mother, strong witch. We pray you move on and find your peace as we unbind you from this world. May you step into the light.”
Her words hit me differently—too deliberate, too ritualistic.
Before I could ask questions
