The chapel smelled too sweet, lilies pressed over the damp soil clinging to shoes at the door. The smell felt heavy enough that Leo thought it might push him flat against the pew. He sat between his parents, his legs dangling, shoes not quite reaching the floor, watching the wooden box at the front of the chapel.
Grandpa was inside.
Everyone said so, though the box was closed and no one had let him check.
A man with a low voice muttered prayers from the altar. The words rolled together like river water, and Leo couldn't catch any of them. The adults around him bowed their heads, some sniffling, some dabbing their eyes. To Leo, it all looked like the whole room had been scolded at once.
He tugged at his mother's sleeve.
"Is Grandpa… is he really—"
Her hand tightened on his, a little too hard, and she shook her head. "Not now, Leo."
The answer wasn't an answer, and that made his stomach twist. He pressed his lips together and looked again at the coffin. He tried to remember Grandpa's laugh — the one that rumbled in his chest whenever Leo lost at cards and demanded a rematch. The sound slipped away the more he tried to hold it.
Voices whispered behind him.
"…such a shame."
"…shouldn't have happened this way."
"…the boy doesn't know—"
Leo twisted in his seat. A few people lingered at the edges of the room, dressed all in black, their faces unfamiliar. Strangers. They didn't smile at him like neighbors usually did. One of them caught his eye and quickly looked away.
Leo shifted closer to his mother. His fingers fidgeted against the fabric of her dress. He wanted to ask who those people were, but her face was locked forward, eyes glassy, as if the world had gone far away without her.
He slumped back, small shoulders drawn tight. The coffin stood ahead, too big, too silent. The longer he stared at it, the less real everything else felt — the flowers, the whispers, even the voices around him.
All he could think was: Grandpa's not laughing anymore.
Leo's legs began to ache from swinging off the edge of the pew. He leaned sideways, resting his cheek against his mother's arm. Her dress smelled faintly of soap and perfume, but underneath, he caught the salt of her tears.
He whispered up at her, "Why's everyone whispering?"
Her lips parted, but she didn't say anything. She just pressed his hand tighter, as if her palm alone could keep him quiet.
Leo frowned. He wasn't trying to be bad. He just wanted to know.
He tilted his head toward the murmurs again.
"…kept it secret too long…"
"…he had no idea…"
"…the boy…"
The words tangled together. He didn't know what "kept it secret" meant, or why they said "the boy" like it wasn't him sitting right there.
He turned back to the coffin. The flowers draped over it looked too bright, almost wrong — yellow and white against the polished dark wood. He remembered Grandpa's hands, how they always smelled faintly of oil and old books. Those hands had lifted him onto shoulders taller than the world.
Now the hands were gone.
Leo's chest squeezed in a way he couldn't name. Not pain, not exactly sadness either — just a hollow spot spreading wider the longer he sat still. He tried to blink it away, but his eyes stung, filling without his permission.
He whispered again, voice cracking, "Can't we open it? I didn't… I didn't get to say goodbye."
His mother made a sound — half gasp, half sob — and shook her head so quickly that her earrings rattled. She bent low, pressing her lips against his hair. "Shh, baby. Just… just sit with me."
Her arms trembled as she held him close.
Leo shut his eyes, pressing his face against her side. But even there, safe against her warmth, he couldn't stop thinking: Why won't anyone answer me?
Rain had started to fall by the time they left the chapel. The sky hung low and gray, swallowing what little light remained.
Leo sat in the back seat, pressed between his car seat and the bundled form of his newborn sister. Her tiny fists twitched beneath the blanket, and every so often a thin cry leaked out, more squeak than wail. His mother rocked her gently with one hand, whispering nonsense sounds to soothe her.
The car's engine hummed steady, but inside it was too quiet. No one spoke.
Leo leaned forward, peering at his father's reflection in the rearview mirror. His dad's jaw was clenched tight, lips a hard line. The faint stubble on his cheeks looked darker than usual, shadows etched in deeper. He kept both hands rigid on the wheel, knuckles pale against the leather.
"Dad?" Leo tried softly.
His father didn't answer. His eyes flicked briefly to the mirror, then back to the road, as if any more attention might shatter something fragile holding him together.
Leo sank back, resting his forehead against the cold glass of the window. Droplets crawled down the outside in winding lines, racing each other until they vanished at the edge. He wanted to ask why no one had let him see Grandpa one last time. He wanted to ask why strangers had been at the funeral. He wanted to ask why his parents kept whispering words he wasn't allowed to hear.
But the questions clogged in his throat. Instead, he listened to his sister's whimpers and his mother's shushing.
A strange pressure began to stir in his chest. At first, he thought it was the tightness that came before crying, but it kept growing, squeezing harder with each breath. He shifted, tugging at his shirt collar.
"Mom…" he tried, but the word came out thin, almost swallowed by the sound of the wipers.
His mother glanced back, her face pale, lips pressed together. She brushed her thumb along the baby's cheek and then reached her other hand toward him, but her fingers trembled too much to touch.
The pressure inside him sharpened. Breaths grew shallow, ragged, like he was running though he sat perfectly still.
Leo clawed at the seatbelt strap, trying to pull it away from his chest. His throat rasped as he fought for air, but his voice wouldn't come. Only a thin, broken wheeze.
"Dad—" The word cracked, barely a whisper.
His father's eyes snapped to the rearview mirror. For a heartbeat, the car swerved before he corrected it. His voice came low, hoarse, meant more for himself than anyone else.
"…It started."
Leo's mother twisted in her seat, the baby clutched awkwardly in her arm. Her other hand reached for him, frantic, brushing his cheek. Tears were already spilling down her face.
"Leo—oh God, Leo, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"
Her voice blurred as his vision swam. The pressure inside his chest spread, heavy as stone, and everything else shrank — the sound of the rain, the hum of the engine, even his sister's crying. All he could see was his mother's face leaning over him, streaked with fear and wet with tears.He tried to answer her. To tell her he was scared. To ask what was happening.
But no words came. Only darkness, rushing fast and absolute, swallowing the car, the road, his family — everything.
And then, nothing.