Churches always gave me the creeps. Too quiet. Too clean. Like if you breathed wrong, God himself would belt ya in the back of the head.

But today was worse. It wasn’t just quiet it was wrong. Like the air didn’t know how to settle.

I stood in the doorway with Ma and Da flanking me, both dressed in black, eyes solemn. But my eyes weren’t on the altar or the bleeding priest rambling on about eternal rest and peace.

They were on her.

My girl.

Sitting up front, back straight like she was braced for war, even though she was falling apart.

All black dress. Knuckles white where she clutched her little brother. He was curled on her lap, head on her chest, too small to understand what was happening, but old enough to feel the grief in the church.

And she just cried.

Silent tears. No sound. Just raw, cracked heartbreak leaking out of her, and she didn’t wipe them. Didn’t care. Like she knew nothing could make her look put together anyway.

The priest kept droning on. Scripture and hope and all that, but it didn’t touch her. Didn’t touch me either.

I walked down the side aisle slow, every eye on me, but I didn’t care. I saw her shoulders stiffen when she caught me out the corner of her eye, like she wasn’t sure if she was imagining me.

But I wasn’t going anywhere.

I slid into the front pew beside her without saying a word. Just sat. Close, but not too close. Not until she shifted her hand and curled her fingers into the hem of my sleeve like she was clinging to a ledge.

That’s when I moved.

I wrapped my arm around her back and held her, gently but firm, steady. She leaned into me, still holding her brother tight, and for a second I swear, I felt her exhale for the first time since it happened.

I wiped the tears from her cheeks, she didn’t move. Just let out a broken sob, making her little brother look up.

I looked. Not at the coffin. Not at the priest. Just at her.

And I swore to myself, If she breaks, I’ll hold every piece.