She felt her chest tightening like an invisible chain, and whenever she tried to cry, her tears choked in her throat, as if the sadness itself refused to escape. She could no longer distinguish whether the pain was hers or had become a part of her.

That morning, she casually put on her black abaya, put on large sunglasses to hide her tired eyes, and headed to the nearest mosque where a funeral was being held for a man she didn't know. She didn't know his name, or even his picture, but she knew the people there wouldn't ask her why she was crying.

She stood in a corner away from the mourners, closed her eyes, and allowed her high wall to finally crack. The tears flowed silently, as if she had finally found her legitimate outlet.

But what she didn't expect was that her husband, Tomioka, was there. Standing quietly in the other row, watching her with a strange gaze, one that held an old, unasked question: "Why are you crying here... and not in front of me?"