THE LAST HOUR OF SEVEN BELLS
The Funeral
The funeral was small.
Nora had planned it that way. No crowds. No reporters. No cameras. Just her, and a few people who had loved Lena, and a priest who had never met her.
The church was old, its stone walls stained with centuries of rain and grief. The stained glass windows depicted scenes of heaven and hell, of angels and demons, of salvation and damnation. The light that filtered through them was pale and cold.
Nora sat in the front row.
The casket was closed.
She had insisted on that too.
She didn’t want to see Lena’s face. Not like that. Not frozen. Not empty. Not gone.
She wanted to remember her as she had been. Alive. Laughing. Hoping.
The priest spoke.
He talked about forgiveness. About redemption. About the mystery of death and the promise of eternal life.
Nora didn’t listen.
She was thinking about the letters. About the phone calls. About the voicemail she had never played.
She was thinking about guilt. About grief. About the weight she had been carrying for fifteen years.
She was thinking about letting go.
After the service, the mourners filed past her.
They offered condolences. They offered hugs. They offered prayers.
Nora accepted them all.
She didn’t cry.
She had cried enough.
The last person in line was Miles.
He wasn’t supposed to be there. He was in prison. He was serving a life sentence. He wasn’t allowed to attend funerals.
But there he was.
Standing in front of her.
Wearing a suit.
His hands uncuffed.
“Nora.”
“Miles.”
“How did you get here?”
He smiled.
It was a sad smile, small and tired and full of years.
“I have friends.”
“Friends in high places?”
“Friends who believe in second chances.”
They walked out of the church together.
The sun was bright.
The sky was blue.
The world was alive.
“I’m glad you came,” Nora said.
“I’m glad you wanted me here.”
“I didn’t know I did. Until I saw you.”
Miles took her hand.
His fingers were warm.
“We’re going to be okay, Nora.”
“Are we?”
“We’re going to try.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“No. Trying is hope. Okay is certainty. I don’t have certainty. I have hope.”
They stood at the edge of the cemetery.
The graves stretched before them, hundreds of them, thousands, a city of the dead.
Lena’s grave was at the edge, beneath an old oak tree, its branches bare, its leaves scattered across the ground.
Nora walked to it.
She knelt.
The grass was cold.
She touched the headstone.
Lena Cross. Beloved Daughter. Beloved Sister. Gone Too Soon.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
The wind carried her words away.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry I didn’t answer. I’m sorry I didn’t save you.”
The silence answered.
“I’ll carry you with me. Always. In my heart. In my memories. In the love I have for you.”
She stood.
She walked back to Miles.
They walked to the car.
They drove away.
They didn’t look back.