PROLOGUE

The rain hasn’t stopped since morning. It falls without hesitation, as though the sky has decided there’s no point holding back. People like to call this “heaven crying.” I’m not sure I believe that. Heaven, if it exists, probably has better things to do than mimic the emotions of people on the ground. But if it were crying, maybe it’s only because it’s bored of watching humans play the same scenes over and over.

The sound is constant. Sharp against the pavement. Loud against the roof of the funeral hall. Heavy enough to drown out half the murmurs in the room.

I keep my eyes down, tracing the uneven lines of the doodles on the plaster of my cast. Some kid drew a crooked smiley face. Someone else wrote their name in green marker. All pointless marks from people who think ink and shapes can make pain lighter.

When I lift my head, my vision catches on something gold. It wasn't from beauty, but from polish. A coffin. Its shine feels almost offensive, like it’s trying too hard to look important.

The sedatives blur everything, not enough to make me drowsy but enough to make the edges of things swim.

To the left of the coffin is an enormous photograph of my mother. Her smile is wide, the kind that convinced people she was made entirely of warmth. To the right is my father. No smile. Eyes straight ahead, lips pressed together like steel. I don’t know why people order portraits this large. As if size compensates for absence.

“My deepest condolences, Amelìa.” A woman leans down and hugs me before I have time to move away. Her voice is soft. Her grip is firm. I don’t remember her name.

I exhale slowly. The pounding in my head tightens.

She’s not the first. I’ve stopped counting how many have walked up to me. They all say the same things: “We’re sorry. Stay strong. We can’t imagine your pain.” I haven’t spoken a single word back. Not out of anger. Just because there’s nothing to say.

The nurse parked my wheelchair in the middle of the aisle, the perfect spot for people to catch me on their way in or out. I hate it. If my body could move the way I wanted, I’d roll myself to the farthest corner.

The priest starts talking. He uses the same slow, calm tone priests always use for these things. Family members, friends, and co-workers step forward to tell stories. They list good qualities. They recount moments that sound like they were pulled from a polite biography.

I watch them. I don’t cry.

What exactly is expected of me? Should I be sobbing by now? Fainting? Does everyone think grief has a specific shape, and if I don’t fit it, then I must not feel at all?

People keep saying they’re sorry for what happened to me. Sorry for the loss. Sorry for the accident. Sorry, sorry, sorry. The word loses all meaning the more it’s said. Death is not something to apologize for. It’s part of the deal. You live, you stop living. The reason doesn’t matter in the end. Accident, illness, age, violence they all comes down to the same stillness.

No one’s “sorry” will rewind time. No one’s tears will fill the space that’s left.

That’s why I’ve never understood funerals. Why cry for people who will never see your tears? If you didn’t give them that kind of attention when they were alive, what’s the point of drowning in it now? People pretend death changes the rules, but it doesn’t. It just makes hypocrisy louder.

If you care for someone, you should let them know when they can still answer back. Not after they’ve been boxed, buried, and turned into a collection of stories for strangers.

My parents didn’t need death to make them love. My mother gave it freely, in every way she knew how. My father’s love was quieter but stronger, something you could stand behind and be sure nothing would touch you. That’s what he did in the end. He protected me so I could sit here breathing.

That’s why I’m in this wheelchair with a broken leg and a pounding head. That’s why they’re in the coffin.

The rain hasn’t slowed.

They’re lowering them now. The ropes creak. Dirt waits. Six feet isn’t that deep when you think about it.

People say they go somewhere after this. Heaven. Light. Peace. I don’t know. I’ve never been there. Neither have they, not until now. If there’s anything beyond this, it’s none of my business yet.

Living isn’t that different from dying. You just do it slower. Every day is a step toward the same end. The only difference is that, for now, I can still open my eyes in the morning. I can still move. I can still decide.

Death is just a matter of when.