The sky wept.
Thick, unrelenting sheets of rain poured over the cemetery, drenching the mourners as they gathered around the freshly dug grave. The air was cold, heavy with grief, as if the very earth knew it was swallowing someone far too young, far too undeserving of such an end.
Luna stood still, her body rigid, arms wrapped around herself in a vain attempt to fight the shivers wracking her frame. But the cold wasn’t just from the rain. It was inside her—deep in her bones, in her heart, in the hollow ache where Carla should have been.
She gripped the white rose in her trembling fingers, its delicate petals bending under the force of her hold. She was supposed to be strong. For Carla. For Carla’s parents. But she felt anything but.
To her right, Carla’s mother, Mrs. Simpson, stood wi
