Henri's collar is crooked.

One side has disappeared beneath his black coat, the other standing stiffly against his neck. Isabeau stares at it.

The smell of incense wafts through the thin air, catching unpleasantly in the back of her throat. A cough, somewhere behind her. Someone is speaking nearby. The words reach her in pieces, too quiet and too far apart to mean anything. Her father stands close enough to her side that his sleeve brushes hers whenever he takes in a ragged breath.

A soft murmur passes through the small crowd and Henri steps forward half a pace, his usually wild hair combed back and his face turned from her. She follows his movement, and her eyes land on the coffin.

It is oppressively small, a cold-looking box held above the hollow pit in the ground. The brass hinge weakly catches the light of the bleak morning sun. Drops of holy water spray from the priest’s outstretched hand, dampening the dull wood, and she watches mutely as the wind sweeps against her face, reminding her of the tears that have barely dried on her cheeks. Another quiet sob wracks through her chest, and an arm wraps around her shoulders, pulling her closer to her father’s side.

The priest continues speaking over the grave, but Isabeau can scarcely hear him. It has started to rain lightly, and the crowd stirs. A few umbrellas slide open. The coffin moves.

Isabeau’s breath catches.

At first it is only a slight shift, wood scraping softly against ropes, barely anything. Then it starts to sink.

“Wait.”

Nobody seems to hear her. Her throat is dry, the words almost choking her. What good would it do if they did hear her? There is nothing left for her to do. She cannot stop the burial. Cannot stop the coffin disappearing into the ground, out of sight, away from her.

“Wait.” Louder.

Her brother looks at her. Her father’s arm over her shoulders faintly tightens, and she takes an involuntary step forward before a hand catches her wrist.

Henri’s hand is shaking, his pale fingers almost skeletal around her arm. He says nothing, does not pull her back, but his hand stays on her as he turns his face away again. She is still, frozen in horror, as the coffin makes its final descent into the earth.

The sound of the dirt hitting the coffin is an abrupt, ugly one. The crowd begins to disperse, her mother’s friends, her coworkers, her clients turning and filing out of the churchyard. A thin man mutters something to her father, a young woman touches Henri’s shoulder as she passes. Isabeau is still. Through the tears blurring and distorting her vision, she watches the wet shovel heaving dirt atop her mother.

“…Isabeau.”

Henri’s voice is quiet. Isabeau does not acknowledge it, eyes fixed forward.

“We… have to go.”

“…No.” Her voice is raspy, her throat feeling as if it’s been torn by her tears. “N-Not now.”

A heavy silence. Eventually, her father’s hand closes around hers, pulling her lightly. She cannot find the strength to resist, and she glances back one last time.

The last image she has of her mother is of her in a coffin, still and silent as a stranger tosses earth over her body.