32. Mariana
Mariana
D irt and roses. That’s what I would remember.
The way the earth smelled raw and damp, heavy with the scent of rain that hadn’t yet fallen. The soil looked too dark, too rich, like it belonged in a garden, not in a grave. Like something was meant to grow from it, not be buried beneath it.
The cloying perfume of wilting white roses clung to the air, thick enough to choke on. Their petals were soft, too soft, fragile in a way that made my stomach turn. They weren’t supposed to be here, not like this, not wrapped in shaking fingers, not held over an open grave.
I tightened my grip on the single rose in my palm, the thorns biting into my skin. It felt like a betrayal, an offering to the ground instead of a person.
The casket creaked as it was lowered into the grave, the sound splitting the air, slicing through the cold afternoon like a blade. I flinched.
Somewhere in the crowd, a muffled sob broke free. A voice cracked on a whispered prayer, footsteps shifted on the damp grass. I heard everything and nothing at once.
The priest kept speaking, his words blending into the low hum of grief that hovered over the cemetery. I didn’t register what he was saying. Because this was it.
This was the moment they took her from me forever. I had told myself I wouldn’t cry. I had spent the morning numbing myself, pressing my nails into my palms, focusing on the weight of my mother’s favorite lavender shawl draped over my shoulders.
Anything to keep myself upright, in control, breathing. But standing there, watching them take her from me for the last time, something inside me snapped.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to claw my way into the earth and pull her back.
I wanted to shake the people standing around me, tell them to do something, to stop this, to make it right.
But no one could. No one even tried. Because this was how it was supposed to go, wasn’t it? People died. They got buried, and the living just… moved on.
My chest seized violently, my body curling inward like something had caved in on itself.
I had the horrible, irrational thought that maybe if I threw myself into the grave, if I screamed loud enough, cried hard enough, begged with every broken part of me, maybe the outcome would change.
Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe she would wake up.
Instead, I stood frozen; my fingers dug into the rose until my palm burned, blood slicking against the stem. I barely felt it. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
All I could do was watch as my mother was swallowed by the earth, and no matter how much I wanted to stop it, to change it, to bring her back—I couldn’t. She was gone, and I was still here.
Sebastian was beside me. A solid presence in a world that suddenly felt paper-thin, fragile in a way that made me feel like if I moved too fast, too suddenly, everything would shatter around me. I didn’t look at him, but I knew he was there.
I could feel him shift closer, just slightly. A breath of warmth in the cold, numbing air. A tether to the present, to the world that was still moving forward while I stood frozen in grief. He wasn’t touching me, but he was close enough that I knew he would if I let him.
He was close enough that if I leaned, just a little, just for a second, I knew that he would catch me.
But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t, because if I let him hold me, if I let myself collapse into him, the grief would break open like a dam, rushing out in a way I knew I wouldn’t be able to control, and if I fell apart now, in front of everyone, in front of him…
I wasn’t sure I’d ever put myself back together again.
A low, broken sound tore from my throat before I could stop it. It wasn’t a sob, not fully, but it was enough to make Sebastian tense beside me. I felt it, the way his body stiffened, the way his breathing hitched just slightly, like he knew I was unraveling.
I felt the moment he almost reached for me, and the way his fingers curled at his side, like he was stopping himself from pulling me in. Like he knew, even without me saying it, that I wouldn’t let him. But he wanted to, and for one agonizing second, I considered it.
I considered turning toward him, letting my forehead press against his chest, letting his arms wrap around me so I wouldn’t have to hold myself upright anymore.
But the moment passed, and instead of leaning into him, I stepped forward. Just enough to make it clear I didn’t want to be touched, and just enough to make the space between us a choice.
The cold air rushed into the gap between our bodies, a physical reminder of the warmth I had just refused.
Sebastian’s hand dropped away, his fingers curling into a loose fist at his side.
I still didn’t look at him, but I felt the moment his breath left him in a slow, controlled exhale.
I knew that exhale; I’ve heard it before, in moments where he was trying to stay steady, trying not to push me.
He was trying to hold himself back when all he wanted to do was be there for me, but I wasn’t ready for that, I wasn’t ready for him. So I stood there, staring at the open grave, letting the distance between us settle like another weight in my chest.
The casket settled at the bottom of the grave. The priest’s voice droned on, meaningless words about eternal peace, about how she was in a better place. I hated him for saying it.
I hated that the sky was gray, but it wasn’t raining. I hated that people were crying, that they had the luxury of grieving openly, while I felt like I was choking on my own breath. I hated that I was still here, standing above ground, while my mother was beneath it.
Someone handed me a handful of dirt. My fingers curled around it, the soil damp and cool against my skin. I stared at it, my vision blurring.
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."
No.
No.
I forced myself to move forward, to open my palm.
The dirt slipped through my fingers, falling in slow, uneven clumps onto the casket below. The thud was too loud in my ears. Too final. I took a step back.
And another.
And another…Until Sebastian’s hand caught my arm.
It was light, just a gentle brush of warmth against my sleeve. Not pulling. Not forcing. Just reminding me he was there.
I didn’t look at him. I just swallowed back the scream that threatened to rise in my throat, pulled away, and turned my back to the grave. Because if I looked at it for one more second, I would break, and I wasn’t ready to break.
Not yet.