People who had whispered that Lily had run away bowed their heads. Some came to Margaret’s house with food. Some apologized. Others couldn’t even look her in the eye.
Because for fifteen years they had buried Lily twice.
First in the earth.
Then in their judgment.
Months later, Lily was finally laid to rest.
The church was full.
Not out of curiosity.
But out of shame.
Noah stood beside the coffin, holding an old photograph of his sister. She was smiling in it. Forever sixteen. Dark hair over one shoulder. Three small white flowers embroidered on her sleeve.
Margaret walked forward with the pink fabric in her hands.
She placed it next to the flowers.
Then she bent down and whispered:
— I’m sorry, my baby. I should have known.
Noah wanted to tell her that it wasn’t her fault.
But grief does not listen to reason.
After the funeral, Harold’s house remained empty.
Nobody wanted it.
The windows were boarded up. The garden died. The shed was torn down. Nevertheless, people crossed the street instead of walking past this farm.
One evening, Noah returned alone.
The sky was grey. The grass had grown wild. Where the shed had once stood, there was only bare earth.
Noah had loved Harold for years.
He had sat next to him at Christmas.
He had accepted birthday money from his hand.
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