Two days later, the Williams family stood dressed in black beside an open grave, the world around them muted by grief. The sky was dull and heavy, as though it, too, mourned the man lying peacefully inside the coffin. His face was calm, untouched by the violence of his death, almost cruel in how gentle it looked.
The pastor's voice floated over the gathering, scripture spilling endlessly into the air. Words about heaven, mercy, and eternal rest passed unheard. Grief swallowed them whole. Nothing could reach Athena — not the prayers, not the murmured sobs around her, not even the cold wind brushing against her skin.
When it was time, the family stepped forward one by one, laying white lilies upon the coffin. Their petals gathered softly, a pale sea of farewell.
Athena approached last.
She held a single black rose, its dark petals trembling between her fingers. Against the lilies, it looked wrong — too bold, too honest. She stopped at the coffin and stared down at her father's face.
That was when everything collapsed.
A sharp, broken sound tore from her chest as her knees gave way. She clutched the edge of the coffin as if it were the only thing keeping her upright, tears spilling uncontrollably, soaking her lashes, her cheeks, her hands. Her breath came in ragged gasps, each one burning her lungs.
It hurt. God, it hurt so much.
He had promised her things. Real things. He had promised her a special gift on her eighteenth birthday. He had promised to walk her down the aisle one day, smiling proudly as he always did. Promises made so easily — shattered without warning.
Why had he left her?
The question screamed inside her head, tearing her apart. And then the guilt came crashing in, heavier than anything else. She had run away. While he was being killed so brutally, she had been running. The realization crushed her chest until it felt impossible to breathe.
Her grip on the coffin tightened as her body shook violently.
"I ran…" the words broke from her lips in a hoarse whisper, barely audible. "I ran away. I wasn't there. I left him."
Her shoulders convulsed as sobs wracked her entire body. She shook her head frantically, as if denying it could undo the truth. "I can't forgive him for leaving me," she cried brokenly, "and he probably can't forgive me either."
The black rose slipped from her trembling fingers, landing softly among the white lilies.
"I'm useless," she choked. "I'm so useless."
At that moment, arms wrapped tightly around her.
Madeline.
Athena collapsed into her completely, clutching onto her as though she were the only thing anchoring her to the earth. Her sobs turned raw and violent, ripping through her chest with no mercy. She cried like a child — loud, shattered, stripped of all strength — burying her face against Madeline's shoulder.
Her grief poured out unchecked, every broken breath carrying years of love and a loss too heavy to bear.
Madeline held her firmly, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other gripping her as if letting go would mean losing her too. She didn't rush her. She didn't pull away. She simply stayed, absorbing the storm of Athena's pain.
"It's okay," she murmured softly, over and over. "It's okay. Let it out. I've got you."
Athena cried until her chest ached, until her voice gave out, until all she could do was cling desperately to the warmth holding her together. Around them, the ceremony faded into the background. People moved. The coffin was lowered. Earth waited.
But in that moment, none of it mattered.
All that existed was Athena — broken, grieving, undone — and the one person she allowed to witness her fall apart completely.
And somewhere deep inside her, something shifted.
Because when grief is shared, it doesn't disappear —
but it leaves behind a scar that remembers who was there when everything fell apart.