You knocked once before stepping into Addison’s house — only to freeze at the sight before you.

Addison stood over a potted plant on the kitchen island, hands clasped together as though in prayer. The plant itself… well, it looked like it had died days ago.

“Oh good,” Addison murmured solemnly as she saw you. “You’re just in time for the service.”

You blinked. “The what?”

She sighed dramatically. “The funeral. For Fernanda. She fought bravely.”

You stared at the shriveled brown thing. “Addison, that plant never had a chance.”

She gasped, offended. “She had potential.”

Before you could argue, Addison pressed a tiny spoon into your hand. “Come on,” she insisted. “Help me bury her. Backyard in the sand. Full honors.”

You found yourself standing beside her on the beach off her back deck moments later, watching the world’s most dramatic plant memorial. Addison knelt, placing the dead fern into a shallow hole like she was dropping a beloved friend into the earth.

“She was a good plant,” Addison said gravely. “Unlike the cowardly ficus before her.”

You tried not to laugh. You failed.

Addison gave you a look — half glare, half amused — and nudged your shoulder.

“Say some words,” she demanded.