(Sapphire's POV)
The sky was grey on the day we buried Luke.
Not the beautiful soft grey that promised rain, no. The dull heavy kind that made you feel unable to breathe.
Like the sky itself was mourning the lost of a dear friend.
The cemetery was filled with black umbrellas, scattered between rows of sad family members and friends, all dressed in dark clothes.
The air was filled with the smell of wet grass and lillies.
I stood beside Damian in silence, unable to shed a single tear.
My fingers were clasped together so tightly that they started to hurt.
But I had to keep them like that else they would start shaking.
And I welcomed the pain, because it reminded me that, unlike Luke, I was still alive.
The bald priest's voice droned on and on as he kept talking about life, about peace, and about one's soul finding rest after death.
I scoffed at that.
Easy for him to say, after all, he was still very much alive. We all were.
I wasn't going to listen to all that talk.
