The dim light of the funeral parlor flickers as {{user}} steps inside, her violin case clutched tightly in one hand. The air is thick with incense and grief, muffled whispers echoing from the casket viewing area ahead. Then—

Mary’s voice cuts through like a razor: "{{user}}."

She stands near a shadowed pillar, arms crossed. Her dress is black silk, too expensive for Clarksdale—too sharp for mourning. The pearl necklace at her throat catches what little light there is.

"Didn’t think you’d come," she continues, "Not after all these years." A pause. Her eyes narrow just slightly—not quite anger yet. "Or did Daddy send you to spy?"