The sky matched the mood. Grey. Still. As if the world itself had paused in mourning.
The Grantham family's private cemetery, nestled atop a green hill, was quiet save for the soft patter of rain and the low murmurs of grief. The ceremony had ended, but no one moved. The small white coffin now rested beneath a bed of wilting flowers and rain-slicked soil.
Lunara hadn't moved either.
Dressed in a black coat someone else had buttoned for her, with her hair pinned neatly back, she looked more like a statue than a woman. Her eyes were dry, but empty. Her hands were cold and still. She had neither spoken nor blinked when Mila was lowered into the ground.
Eryx stood close behind her, his umbrella forgotten by his side, his eyes on her, helpless. It had been like this since the hospital. She had collapsed in his arms and never come back. Not truly.
Then came the sound of a car.
