~ELENA~

The sky is gray the morning we bury my mother.

Not stormy. Not bright. Just there.

The cemetery stretches endlessly before me, rows of headstones disappearing into the mist. The air smells like rain and damp soil, sharp and clean, and it hurts my chest every time I breathe it in.

This is where she ends.

I stand still, dressed in black that feels too tight around my ribs, my hands trembling slightly at my sides. I don’t remember walking here.

I don’t remember getting out of the car. I only remember the sound of the coffin lid closing days ago—and how final that sound was.

Vincenzo stands to...