The burial

Despite the early hour, the small chapel was beginning to fill up with people —and the air that was starting to tense up wasn't welcoming or cheerful.

Groups of people stood huddled together in hushed conversations, their breath visible in the chilly air. In the front row, a woman sat alone, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs —it was aunt Elsie.

A few rows back, two men sat with their heads bowed, their faces etched with sorrow. As more people filed in, the chapel became crowded and stifling.

The air was heavy with the scents of flowers and grief. Soon, a lady clad in a black lengthy gown and a black hat to fit strutted through the marbled floors of the chapel, joining aunt Elsie —her face was clouded in pains and maybe guilt.

At the front of the chapel, a casket rested on a simple stand, flanked by two vases filled with white lilies. The scene was eerie in its stillness, despite the heavy weight of sadness.

As the appointed time drew near, the murmurs in the crowd died down, leav