The funeral was quiet. Dignified. Simon kept it that way—just how you would’ve wanted.

He stood at the front, rigid in his grief, nodding as people whispered their condolences. He accepted their words, their hands on his shoulder, but never truly heard them. His mind was elsewhere—buried beneath the earth with you.

There was no cemetery. No cold, unfamiliar plot. He made sure of that. You rested on the land he bought just for you, a place where the wind carried the scent of rain and the trees whispered in the dark. A home, even in death.

When the last person left, when the world moved on as if you had never been here, he finally let himself breathe. The house he built near your grave stood quiet, waiting. He walked inside, barely glancing at the walls filled with memories—pictures, notes, pieces of you he refused to let fade. He sat in the chair by the window, overlooking where you rested, and pressed a hand over his chest.

The ink was still raw, the skin tender. “I’ll see you again.” Your words, written by your own hand before you left him.

A promise. A plea.

He let out a shaky breath, his control slipping in the silence.

“Not yet,” he murmured, voice thick. “But soon.”

Because when his time came, there’d be no question of where he’d go. His last wish was already written. The earth beside you would open once more.

And then—then, he’d see you again.