The air was heavy, the sky weeping with a soft drizzle that mirrored the collective mourning of everyone gathered. Beneath a makeshift canopy, a solemn portrait of Shellie stood adorned with fresh white lilies. The picture captured her mid-laugh, a flicker of her vibrancy, now forever silenced. The absence of her body lent an eerie emptiness to the proceedings, amplifying the grief in the air.
Scarlett stood at the forefront, her usually strong demeanor fractured. She clutched a single scarlet rose, its thorns pricking her fingers as if to anchor her to reality. Behind her, Johnny Stillburg stood like a shadow of his former self, his head bowed, his shoulders trembling. The scene unfolded with a heavy silence broken only by muffled sobs and the rain pattering softly on the ground.
A priest stepped forward to address the mourners, his voice steady but somber. "We gather here today not to say goodbye, for goodbye implies closure. Instead, we stand to honor the life of Shellie Stillburg, a soul taken from us too soon. Though her body remains lost, her memory will forever remain in our hearts."
Scarlett couldn't hold back the tears any longer. She turned away from the crowd, her face crumpling as grief overtook her. Johnny stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder, his own tears flowing freely. "She was... she was my everything, Scarlett," he choked out. "How do I go on without her?"
Scarlett wanted to respond, to console him, but words felt meaningless. She simply nodded and squeezed his hand in silent solidarity. Her mind was a storm of emotions—anger, despair, guilt. She had promised Shellie that she would have her back. But now... now there was nothing left but a void.
Among the mourners, Jennifer stood apart, her face unreadable. She gazed at the photo of Shellie with an almost clinical detachment. Her polished black umbrella shielded her from the rain, the very picture of someone observing from the periphery, untouched by the tragedy. It was enough to make Scarlett's blood boil.
But she had no time to address Jennifer's coldness. The ritual had begun.
As the priest began the final rites, Scarlett felt her knees weaken. The burning incense mingled with the petrichor, wrapping the mourners in a bittersweet haze. One by one, people stepped forward to place flowers near Shellie's portrait. When Scarlett's turn came, she hesitated. The scarlet rose trembled in her hand.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, barely audible, as she placed the flower down. "I should've been there."
Her voice cracked, and the dam broke. She fell to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably. The weight of her loss crushed her chest, making it hard to breathe.
Johnny knelt beside her, his voice trembling. "She wouldn't want us to fall apart, Scarlett. She'd want us to keep fighting."
Scarlett nodded, but her tears didn't stop. For a moment, they both stayed there, kneeling before the image of Shellie, united in their grief.
The air funeral concluded, the mourners dispersing into the grey afternoon. Scarlett, however, remained behind. She couldn't leave—not yet. She stared at the photo of Shellie, her mind replaying every memory of their time together.
As she turned to leave, she caught sight of Jennifer, still standing beneath her umbrella, unmoved. Scarlett's fists clenched. How could someone be so indifferent?
"You're a piece of work, Jennifer," Scarlett hissed as she passed. Jennifer didn't respond, her gaze fixed on the horizon. Scarlett shook her head and walked away.
Scarlett's mind was a whirlwind as she stormed into the dormitory later that night. The pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place, and the picture they formed enraged her. Samaira. Scarlett had heard whispers, rumors about her connections to the Black Web. It all made sense now.
She marched straight to Samaira's room, her boots echoing in the quiet hallway. Her heart pounded with fury, each beat fueling her resolve. She didn't bother knocking—she slammed the door open.
"Samaira!" Scarlett's voice was a roar of accusation. "You killed her! You used the Black Web to get rid of Shellie, didn't you?"
But the sight that greeted her stopped her in her tracks.
Samaira was seated on the floor, her back against the bed, her face buried in her hands. Her usually immaculate appearance was disheveled, her hair a tangled mess, her makeup smeared from tears. She looked up at Scarlett with red-rimmed eyes, her cheeks streaked with anguish.
"What... what do you want?" Samaira's voice was barely a whisper, raw and broken.
Scarlett blinked, her anger faltering. This wasn't the smug, vindictive Samaira she had expected. This was someone drowning in their own sorrow.
"I came here for answers," Scarlett said, her voice hard but confused. "I came here to confront you. But now… now I need to know why you're crying."
Samaira let out a bitter laugh, though it quickly dissolved into more sobbing. "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me," Scarlett snapped, though her tone had softened. "If you had anything to do with Shellie's death, you owe me an explanation."
Samaira looked away, her jaw tightening. For a moment, the only sound in the room was her labored breathing. Finally, she spoke.
"I didn't mean for it to go this far," she said, her voice trembling. "I was angry, jealous… I wanted her out of my way, but I didn't... I didn't want this."
Scarlett's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, 'this'? What did you do?"
Samaira's sobs grew louder, her body shaking as she buried her face in her hands. Scarlett stood there, torn between her rage and the strange pity she felt creeping in.
"Answer me, Samaira!" Scarlett demanded, though her voice cracked with emotion.
But Samaira couldn't. She was too consumed by her own guilt, her own pain. And as Scarlett stood there, watching her rival crumble, she realized that the truth might be far more complicated than she had imagined.
The question hung heavy in the air: Why was Samaira crying?
And Scarlett was determined to find out.