Chapter 5: The Funeral

The sky was the color of ash.

A biting wind cut through the rows of black umbrellas gathered outside the old stone church, rattling the trees and pulling at the long coats of mourners as if the heavens themselves mourned her.

Inside, the chapel was hushed, the air thick with the scent of lilies and grief. The pews were filled—family, friends, former classmates, coworkers—each carrying their own version of Sana in their hearts. Laughter and sunlight, warmth and stubborn joy. She had touched them all.

At the front, Arnold Khatri, Sana’s older brother, stood frozen in place.

He hadn’t spoken since he arrived. His eyes, bloodshot and hollow, stared at the polished wood of the closed casket as if daring it to open. His jaw was clenched, shoulders squared in a silent war between composure and collapse. Grief clung to him like smoke.

When the pastor gently invited those who wished to speak, Arnold only nodded once, then returned to silence. He could not bring himself to move.

A few voices rose—colleagues from Sana’s NGO work, a childhood friend recounting sleepovers and shared secrets. Each word was a small eulogy, a desperate attempt to grasp the fragments she had left behind. But no one could truly capture her—the way her laughter lit up a room, the fierce loyalty she gave so easily, the way she held people together simply by existing.

And then there was Athena, standing at the back.

Wrapped in a long black coat, her face was half-obscured by a wide-brimmed hat, but not enough to hide her. People noticed. They always did. And now, their stares felt like knives.

She had known this would happen. That her presence would stir tension, raise eyebrows, ignite murmurs barely concealed.

“She showed up?”

“After what she did?”

“Does she even feel anything?”

Athena said nothing. She didn’t flinch. Her face, as ever, was unreadable—sculpted from stone. But inside, she was fracturing. Each whispered judgment chipped at her ribs. Each stolen glance confirmed the verdict: she was the villain in a story written in tears.

Yet she had to be there.

She had to see Sana off.

The service ended, and the mourners filed out in solemn procession. Rain began to fall again—quiet, cold drops that dotted their coats and blurred the path ahead. The hearse waited like a sentinel, and behind it, a fleet of cars stretched in a slow, silent line toward the cemetery.

Athena followed alone, her driver keeping a respectful distance from the others. No one invited her. No one spoke to her. But no one could stop her either.

At the gravesite, the wind whispered through the trees as Sana’s coffin was slowly lowered into the earth. The sound of the pulley, the rustle of leaves, and the sobs of the mourners were the only sounds.

Arnold stepped forward, dropped a white rose into the grave, and said nothing. Just turned, broken-eyed, and walked away.

Athena remained where she was.

She didn’t bring flowers. She brought silence.

As the first shovel of soil hit the coffin, something inside her splintered. Her nails dug into the flesh of her palm, but she refused to cry. She didn’t deserve that release. Not here. Not now.

Because it wasn’t just Sana being buried.

It was everything.

The laughter. The childhood. The softness Athena had only allowed one person to see. Her tether to the world before the steel and glass of business consumed her. Her anchor.

Gone.

She stood motionless as the grave was filled, her eyes unblinking. Around her, people whispered, umbrellas shifting like wings.

And when the crowd began to disperse, Athena turned away from them all, walking in the opposite direction through the rows of headstones, the wind tugging at her coat.

She didn’t say goodbye.

She couldn’t.

Because in some way, she hadn’t accepted it yet.

Not really.

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