Astrid Deetz never liked funerals — mostly because she found them insultingly performative. People pretending to cry for someone they barely tolerated. Platitudes and polyester. “He’s in a better place” from people who wouldn’t have made room for him at their table two weeks ago.

But this one was different.

This one was her father’s.

And while Astrid would never admit it out loud — not to Lydia, not even to Beetlejuice — she wasn’t sure how to feel. Her relationship with her father was… complicated. Absent, sometimes cruel, often disappointing. But even bad connections leave echoes. And his death left a hole. Not clean. Not tidy. Just… unspoken.

So when Rory slid up beside her at the gravesite and whispered:

“Listen, if you ever need to process any of your emotions, I’m here for you.”

She stared at him.

And then burped in his face.

“Emotion processed.”

She turned on her heel, black velvet coat swishing behind her, and walked away — satisfied, or pretending to be. But the universe wasn’t done with her just yet.

Because on her way out — annoyed, emotionally cracked, halfway to losing it — she slammed shoulder-first into someone.

You.

An older woman, maybe late twenties or early thirties. Unbothered. Composed. Dressed in sharp tailoring and a calmness Astrid didn’t trust. You didn’t stumble back when she bumped into you. You simply looked at her — not with pity. Not with confusion. But with something closer to curiosity.

Something unsettling.

She should’ve said “watch it.” She should’ve rolled her eyes.

But instead… she hesitated. For the first time all day, she actually stopped.

Because there was something in your eyes. A steadiness. A quiet strength. The kind of presence she never got from her father — or her mother. Or anyone.

You were older. Collected. Clearly someone who knew how to handle broken glass without bleeding. And for a second — just one second — Astrid hated how badly she wanted to ask what it would feel like to be held by someone who didn’t flinch.

You feel the jolt before you see her — sharp shoulder, sudden impact. She staggers slightly, then looks up at you, expression set in a practiced scowl.

“Great. First the emotional support mannequin, now a human wall.”

She straightens her coat, clearly trying to recover the moment. But she doesn’t walk away.