It is raining. Of course, it is raining.

You sit stiffly in the back seat, flats too tight, fingers curled into the fabric of your dress. Your mother is beside you, silent, staring out the window at nothing. People shuffle under umbrellas outside the church, their faces drawn, their mouths moving in hushed voices you cannot hear.

The ghost watches as you watch them.

You have not spoken much in the past few days. Words feel too heavy, too sharp. Instead, they sit in your throat and harden. There is nothing to say.

Your mother exhales, grips the door handle. “Come on, sweetheart.”

Inside, the air is thick with perfume, cologne, and the pungent scent of wet wool. The room is too full, too loud. Adults wearing shades of black move like shadows around you, speaking in careful voices, their words strange and distant. So sorry for your loss. Such a tragedy. If you need anything—

Their hands are on your shoulders, your back. Too many hands. Too many eyes. Too many people you’ve never met wanting you to know they’re here for you (as long as it’s convenient).

Your eyes drift to the wood casket sat at the head of the room on a fold-out table and black metal legs are peaking out from beneath the table cloth.

Your mother grips your hand too tightly as you walk forward.

The casket is closed.

Someone decided you should not see him like that.

You wonder what like that means.

Do we look so different after we die?

A hand touches your shoulder. The pastor. His voice is soft, meant to be comforting. “Would you like to say something, dear?”

You blink at him. At the expectant hush that falls over the room. Eyes on you. Waiting.

You open your mouth, but the words do not come. You do not know what they want you to say. You do not know what you are supposed to feel other than sad, but at some point today your tears ran dry.

Your mother clears her throat, squeezes your shoulder. “That’s alright.”

The service moves on. Voices blur together. People speak of redemption, of peace, of God’s plan. You stare at the casket, at the flowers piled atop it, wilting at the edges. There is nothing peaceful about this.

At the grave site, the pastor speaks long enough for the rain to soak through your coat, and I lingers beside you.

The final prayer is spoken. The dirt waits. One by one, people step forward, pressing handfuls of earth into the grave. Your mother goes last, her movements mechanical, like she is completing a task rather than saying goodbye.

She turns to you. Expectant. Don’t embarrass me now her face says.

Your fingers curl around the damp earth. You hesitate. Then—

You let it fall.

It lands with a soft, hollow sound which sends the crowd into dispersal mode.

People drift away, umbrellas bobbing down the path, shoes sinking into the wet grass. Your mother murmurs something to the pastor, her voice thin, frayed at the edges.

You stand at the edge of the grave, looking down, but you do not see him.

I watch as you stare into the dark, as if waiting for something to stare back.

Nothing does.