The Burial

Hazel stood at a corner of her room, reflecting on the letter she had just found. She needed answers desperately, but there wasn't any forthcoming help, and the thought of telling someone scared her. She had been told that her Dad had been burned to death on the top floor of his workplace and had jumped out of the window in fear. Yet there was something in her that refused to believe it that refused to accept that he was dead. She clamped both hands on her head in confusion.

There was a knock on the door—slow and steady.

Hazel walked over, her fingers twitching as they hovered over the knob. She opened it, and there stood Baileé, her best friend, beaming with smiles and heavily pregnant.

"Hazel!" she squealed, pulling her into a tight hug. Her short, brown wavy hair bounced around her shoulders.

"Baileé…" Hazel breathed, surprised by a flicker of joy. She hugged her back, deeply inhaling that familiar scent of peaches and rose—a signature of Baileé's effortless luxury.

"I hope I heard wrong," Baileé said, stepping inside. "Because the Mr. Allen I know? He can't be gone."

Hazel walked her in silently. They were built the same, except Baileé had a more tanned complexion and chestnut-colored hair. Her minimal makeup and delicate jewelry highlighted her glowing skin and dimpled smile. The sky-blue maternity jeans hugged her inverted triangle figure. She studied Hazel's face closely, and the momentary silence told her everything.

"Oh, darling…" she whispered, her voice dipping as her arms closed around Hazel again. A silver tongue piercing flashed slightly as she gasped. Hazel melted into the embrace, tears slipping down her face, soaking the frilled edge of Baileé's sleeveless paisley top.

"I'm sorry I didn't call," Baileé murmured. "I just—I needed to see you in person. Plus, final trimester checkups. Hazel, babe… you've got to hold on for both of us, okay? I love you. You can't vanish on me."

Hazel sobbed against her. It all felt so unfair. At least she had a best friend and a loving boyfriend, she considered.m with a glint of gratitude.

Baileé soon wiped at her own eyes, catching the tears before they fell with her red-acrylic-tipped index fingers.

"Listen to me," she said softly, but firmly, gazing into Hazel's eyes with a kind of admiration and quiet knowing. "One day, you'll meet someone—someone amazing. Someone who'll love you as fiercely as your Dad did. And your kids? They'll have a father worth everything. Life isn't over yet, right?"

Hazel tried to nod. Tried to believe it.

Baileé pulled her back into another hug and patted her gently.

"What about your husband?" Hazel asked, trying to change the subject.

"Oh, Richard? He's on set in South Julien for another movie. They're behind schedule, as usual. Femme fatale drama, ugh. Not my favorite storyline but—whatever." She chuckled, waving her hand dramatically.

Hazel gave a soft, wet laugh.

"Let me grab some tissue," Baileé said, standing. "It's okay to cry, my love."

She was halfway to the bathroom when she called back, "Your mom—she in?"

"Yeah… She's been in her room for two days. She won't eat no matter how much I beg."

Hazel returned with a tissue box just as Aunt Kate descended the stairs.

"Your bestie?" she asked, raising a brow.

Hazel tucked her lips. "Um… Yeah."

Kate crossed her arms. "The other day, Hazel, you left a pan on the stove. The whole kitchen nearly went up in flames. I know you're grieving, but that doesn't mean you turn into a charley. You could've killed us."

Hazel flinched at the term, but bit back her reaction.

"My bad. I'm sorry," she muttered.

Kate rolled her eyes. "If only that idiot could die the way he did," she snapped, stomping up the stairs, her voice trailing off into angry mutters. Hazel knew who she meant—Mr. Burgundy.

Miss Kate—now Miss Swede again after her short, doomed marriage—hadn't been the same since the divorce. She caught him cheating, lost custody of Churchill, and now wore her pain like armor. Toxic. Bitter. Hardened by the wreckage of love.

Funeral Day

Beneath a drizzling sky, Hazel stood motionless, surrounded by black gowns, dark umbrellas, and solemn hymns.

It was her father's memorial and funeral. They had chosen cremation. His ashes sat in a simple urn at the center of the altar, surrounded by roses—red and pink.

Hazel wore a black satin mini dress with a fitted corset. She had cried herself dry. Her emotions felt suspended, hovering above her like the fog around them.

Across the aisle, her mother looked ghostly. So pale, Hazel feared she might collapse. Her collarbones jutted sharply, and the hollows of her neck were deep enough to hold rain. She hadn't even combed her hair. Just the long black dress—nothing else.

Kate stood beside her, arms folded. Nearby were her paternal grandmother, maternal grandfather, family friends, and the doctor… Baileé on one side, Philip on the other, gently rubbing Hazel's hand and kissing it now and then.

The slow piano music filtered through the rain like a heartbeat. Each note mourned.

The eulogies began.

First was her mother. She couldn't speak—only wept.

Her grandmother followed, speaking about losing her husband at an old age.

Then, Hazel was called up.

She stood.

Hands trembling. Heart aching. The rain intensified, tapping the umbrella above her head. She stepped forward, dropped the umbrella—and let herself feel alone.

She stared at the urn. This tiny object now houses someone who had been larger than life.

She took the mic. Her breath caught.

"I… well…"

A single tear fell.

"I wanted to believe this wasn't real. That maybe someone planned this whole thing to see how I'd react. Or that I'd wake up and find him at the breakfast table, humming again."

Her voice cracked.

"But here we are. And if it weren't for Mom, I think I might've followed him."

The crowd stilled.

"He was the kind of father people dream of. A protector. A listener. My biggest cheerleader."

She looked out at the sea of umbrellas. At her mother's. At the urn.

"I pray my future daughter never has to cry for her father the way I'm crying now. And I hope I never have to mourn my husband the way my mother is mourning hers."

A long pause.

"If I get to live again, I hope—no, I know—I'll choose him as my Dad all over again."

The crowd was silent, but the rain kept falling—soft, steady, and sorrowful. Just like Hazel's heart. There was more to what would happen after that day.