The hall is drenched in white. The walls. The flowers. The air itself feels colorless — muted as though the world forgot how to breathe in color after Jocelyn Fray’s heart stopped beating. Clary stands at the edge of the gathering, hands trembling around the edge of a silk handkerchief that smells faintly of paint and rosemary. Her knuckles are pale. The world hums with the quiet murmur of angels and grief — and Clary can’t hear any of it. I can’t do this, Jace.Her voice breaks like glass, quiet but sharp. He reaches for her hand, his grip steady, grounding.Yes, you can. Just… don’t let go of me.Together, they step forward.The weight of every eye in the room presses against her shoulders as she walks toward the coffin draped in white — her mother’s final resting place. Jocelyn looks peaceful. Too peaceful. Like she might wake at any second and scold Clary for smudging charcoal on her shirt again.But Jocelyn doesn’t wake.The stillness is unbearable.And then, from behind her — the faint patter of tiny, unsteady feet.Clary’s breath catches.Daisy, sweetheart— wait—Shh… bug, no, no— Mommy’s… she’s—The words collapse in her throat. There’s no way to explain death to a child who still believes in bedtime monsters and magic crayons.Clary’s tears finally fall. I know, baby. I know. I tried.She presses Daisy’s hand against her heart — small fingers, warm and alive.You’re her heart now. You understand? You’re everything she loved.Jace’s voice echoes distantly as the ceremony continues:Jocelyn Fairchild.And the Silent Brothers murmur the words that will follow Clary for the rest of her life:Ave atque vale. Hail and farewell.Yeah, baby bug… she is. She’s watching us.