Funerals are supposed to give closure.
Mine didn't.
(Author's Thought: Closure? I was still standing behind a tree.)
It felt unfinished—like a sentence cut off halfway.
The casket was lowered gently, as if there was something fragile inside. People leaned forward, curious, grieving, respectful of a body that wasn't there.
I watched from a distance, my nails digging into my palms.
If only you knew, I thought.
You're crying over air.
After the service, people surrounded my mother. They held her. They spoke in low voices. They told her she was strong.
She nodded at all the right moments.
She did not scream.
She did not faint.
She did not ask questions.
I understood why later.
They had warned her.
And that hurt more than the burial itself.
That night, I slept on the floor of a stranger's room, staring at the ceiling, listening to my heartbeat like it was a crime.
I had no name anymore.
Just a pulse.
(Author's Thought: Survival tip—when you're dead on paper, life gets very quiet.)
End of Chapter 2 – Want to see what a ghost does next?