The casket was white. Too small. Too final.
Flora stood beside it in the private room arranged by the embassy, fingers curled tightly around Lucy's folded sweater. The hospital had offered a memorial service. She declined.
This wasn't a performance.
It was a reckoning.
---
Gavin arrived first. He looked different—rumpled, red-eyed, like grief had finally caught up to him and didn't care for the company.
“I'm sorry," he whispered.
Flora didn't respond.
“I booked flights. I'll come back with you. We can—"
“We won't."
His brows furrowed. “Flora, please."
She turned. “You had thirty minutes. You made your choice."
“I made a mistake. I panicked. I thought I was helping. I thought she was safe."
“Stop saying 'thought.' She died."
He looked down.
“I'll get help," he said. “Therapy.
