I remember staring at my phone long after I read Peter’s message. Something came up? At the funeral of his father? And Celia—she hadn’t replied at all. I knew her well enough to guess she was busy with brunch, or yoga, or some trivial pursuit she had prioritized over saying goodbye.

The wind rattled the stained-glass windows, and I could almost hear George’s voice in the silence, sharp and amused: “Looks like I’m going to have to keep you company myself, dear.”

I looked down at my hands, the rings feeling heavy, grounding me to the reality of being utterly alone. Then I realized the chapel wasn’t just empty of people. It was empty of apology, of acknowledgment, of gratitude for the man who had given so much.

I took a deep breath, standing slowly. I could let this be the moment I crumpled, or I could make it the moment I decided that George’s memory wouldn’t vanish quietly with these absent children.

I walked up to the casket, fingers brushing over the polished mahogany. “You see, George,” I whispered, “they might not be here, but I am. And I will tell them who you were, even if they refuse to remember.”

The lilies’ perfume burned my nose as if it too were angry at the empty chairs. But I didn’t care. I would carry this man’s life forward, even if I had to do it alone.

Then, from somewhere near the back, I heard a soft creak of a chair. My head snapped up. A shadow moved in the doorway. Not Peter. Not Celia. But someone. Someone unexpected.

And in that moment, I realized I wasn’t entirely alone.