The sky hung low, gray and heavy, as if it, too, carried grief it couldn’t release. People spoke in hushed tones, their voices blending into a distant murmur that barely reached me. Everything felt distant, unreal—like I was watching someone else’s life from behind a pane of glass.
Dressed entirely in black, a thin shawl draped over my shoulders that did little to shield me from the cold or from my own trembling, I stood beside the coffin. My hands were clasped tightly together, as if holding myself in place.
Inside that polished wood box lay the man I had built my life with. The man who had once promised me safety, certainty, a future.
Beside me stood my son, Ethan Hayes.
His posture was rigid, his jaw clenched so tightly it seemed it might crack. He stared straight ahead, unblinking, his expression unreadable. There were no tears. No visible grief. Just something harder… something closed off.
In that moment, I realized with a quiet, growing dread that I no longer recognized him.