Chapter 13
Agnes stopped wearing formal black for six months.
She said it reminded her of the casket.
I never told her that was silly.
Fear attaches wherever it wants.
Then one morning she arrived at breakfast in a black cardigan.
I noticed.
Said nothing.
She did.
“Don’t make it a thing.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You have face.”
Apparently my family had developed a language for my silence.
She sat.
Then asked:
“What happened to the caskets?”
Storage.
I had not known what to do.
Burning them felt dramatic.
Keeping them felt worse.
Agnes thought.
“Donate them.”
I stared.
“To whom?”
“Community theater.”
I laughed so hard coffee came out wrong.
She smiled.
“Props.”
That was exactly right.
Objects stripped of intended power.
The chapel was renovated.
Not erased.
Still a chapel.
No hidden camera.
No ceremonial funeral displays.
We replaced the flower stand Owen crashed into.
Agnes chose it herself.
Then she did something I did not expect.
She placed my portrait—the one from the second casket—on a shelf in her apartment.
“Why?”
She shrugged.
“It’s a good picture.”
I stared.
“That was prepared for my funeral.”
“Now it’s prepared for my hallway.”
Fair.
Reclamation without speeches.
She saw my expression.
“Bianca.”
“Yes?”
“If I die before you, no closed casket.”
My throat tightened.
“Okay.”
“And no one tells people I requested privacy.”
“Okay.”
“And make sure Owen doesn’t choose flowers.”
I laughed.
She smiled.
May you like
Good.
The woman they tried to turn into a disappearance had become extremely specific about visibility.
