The Funeral

Saint-Malo wore a veil of soft rain on the day of Elias Moreau's funeral.

It fell gently, as though the sky refused to cry too loudly,

as though it knew his poems deserved reverence, not wailing.

The procession moved through the old chapel,

candlelight flickering across stone walls,

casting trembling shadows like ghosts of his verses.

Celeste walked alone at the front,

a ribbon of black around her wrist,

his notebook cradled to her chest like a relic.

Inside the church, pews were filled with strangers and loved ones alike.

The bookseller.

An old professor from his youth.

A girl who once read his poem in a magazine and said it stopped her from vanishing.

They had all come—for him.

The priest spoke kindly, but it was Celeste's voice they waited for.

She rose.

Her footsteps echoed like slow heartbeats.

At the pulpit, she unfolded a worn page,

creased where her trembling hands had clutched it too many times.

She read aloud:

> "For Celeste"

Though breath may fade like tide from shore,

my soul is stitched in yours evermore.

In every brushstroke, every line—

know this love is yours, not mine alone.

It was always ours.

Her voice cracked on the last line,

but she did not cry.

Instead, she smiled.

A soft, aching smile.

Then she stepped down,

walked to the graveyard where sea and stone met,

and laid his notebook—wrapped in a blue ribbon—at the head of the grave.

A white rose followed.

And then silence.

But not emptiness.

Just silence full of memory.

Just silence full of him.