Chapter Text
The day of Amber Glenn’s funeral arrived under a sky that refused to decide between rain and sunlight. Gray clouds hung low above the cemetery, heavy and unmoving, as if the weather itself understood that the day should remain quiet.
Alysa Liu stood beside the open grave with her hands buried deep in the pockets of her coat. The autumn air had turned cold overnight, but she barely noticed it. Her eyes were fixed on the polished wooden casket resting above the grave, as though staring long enough might somehow change the situation.
It didn’t.
People surrounded her in a loose circle—family members, friends, former colleagues, distant relatives Alysa barely recognized. Their voices drifted in soft murmurs, the careful tone people used when they didn’t know what else to say.
“She was extraordinary.”
“Such a bright life.”
“Far too young.”
Alysa heard the words but felt detached from them, like someone listening to a conversation happening through a wall. The phrases were familiar, almost rehearsed, and yet none of them seemed large enough to describe the person they were talking about.
Amber Glenn had been thirty-seven years old.
Alysa was thirty-five.
They had been married for eight years.
Eight years. Alysa kept repeating the number in her head as if it might suddenly expand into something larger. Eight years of quiet mornings together, of late-night conversations, of small domestic routines that had felt ordinary at the time and now seemed impossibly precious.
It didn’t feel like enough.
Isabeau Levito stood beside her, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. Alysa didn’t turn to look at her, but the presence was grounding. Isabeau had been there since the hospital, through the paperwork and the long night that followed, and now through the funeral itself. She hadn’t said much. She didn’t need to.
The priest finished his final words and stepped back.
A silence settled over the gathering.
Wind moved gently through the trees, carrying the dry rustle of autumn leaves. Alysa continued staring at the casket as if something inside her still expected it to open.
For Amber to sit up.
For someone to laugh and say there had been a mistake.
For the world to correct itself.
Someone gently touched Alysa’s arm.
She turned her head slowly to see the priest watching her with careful kindness.
“Would you like to say something?”
For a moment, Alysa thought she might. She opened her mouth, already searching for the right words, but her mind remained blank. What could possibly be said in a moment like this? Every sentence she tried to form sounded too small, too simple, too incomplete.
Amber had never liked dramatic speeches anyway. She had always preferred quiet honesty over elaborate sentiment.
Alysa swallowed and shook her head once.
“No,” she said softly.
The word felt heavier than it should have.
Isabeau’s hand slipped into hers, steady and warm.
They stood together as the casket was slowly lowered into the ground.
Grief did not arrive in a single overwhelming moment. Instead, it unfolded gradually, spreading through Alysa’s life in strange and uneven waves.
The first week passed in a blur of casseroles, flowers, and sympathetic visitors who spoke in hushed voices. The house filled with people bringing food Alysa never felt hungry enough to eat. Conversations drifted around her while she nodded automatically, barely absorbing anything that was said.
At night, the silence returned.
Amber’s shoes remained beside the door exactly where she had left them. Her favorite mug still sat on the kitchen counter. A half-finished book rested on the bedside table, a folded page marking the spot where she had stopped reading.
Amber was already tying the laces of her shoes when Alysa walked into the kitchen.
“You’re going in today?” Alysa asked.
“Morning class,” Amber said. “The juniors have competition next month.”
Alysa smiled into her coffee. “You realize they worship you, right?”
“They worship anyone who brings snacks.”
Everything looked paused, as though Amber had simply stepped outside for a moment and might return at any time.
On the eighth day, Alysa reached for her phone without thinking.
Her fingers typed Amber’s name automatically.
She stared at the screen for a long time before slowly setting the phone back down.
The first month was worse.
Silence had a different quality now. When Amber had been alive, the quiet in their house had always felt comfortable—two people existing peacefully in the same space. Amber would read while Alysa scrolled through her phone or talked about something she’d seen online, filling the room with her usual energy.
Now the quiet felt hollow.
Alysa started leaving the television on at night just to hear voices in the background. Sometimes she caught herself speaking out loud without realizing it.
“Amber, where did you put the—”
She stopped mid-sentence every time.
The realization landed with the same dull weight again and again.
On the bookshelf sat a row of psychology journals beside a framed photo of Amber standing on the rink with three young skaters holding medals.
The rink was almost empty when Alysa finally sat down.
Amber was still out there.
She moved across the rink in wide, steady arcs, the familiar sound of blades cutting softly through the ice echoing through the large space. Even during late practices, Amber always stayed longer than everyone else.
Alysa used to stay with her.
Tonight she didn’t.
Amber slowed when she noticed Alysa watching and skated toward the barrier, resting her arms on the edge.
“You’re done already?” she asked.
Alysa nodded. “Yeah.”
Amber studied her for a moment.
“You usually stay.”
“I know.”
Amber tilted her head slightly. Something about Alysa’s voice had changed.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
Alysa shook her head immediately. “Nothing’s wrong.”
Then she hesitated.
“I just… think I’m done with competing.”
Amber didn’t answer right away.
The rink hummed quietly around them.
Alysa rubbed the back of her neck. “I still love skating,” she added quickly. “I just don’t love the rest of it anymore. The pressure. The rankings. All of it.”
Amber rested her chin lightly on her arms against the barrier.
“So what do you want instead?”
Alysa looked down at her skates.
“I’ve been thinking about taking master in psychology,” she said.
Amber nodded slowly.
Amber nodded slowly and then leaned back, stretching her legs out in front of her.
“You’ll be good at it.”
Alysa glanced at her. “You didn’t even think about it.”
“I did.”
“For two seconds.”
“That was enough.”
Alysa laughed quietly. “You’re very confident in me.”
Amber smiled faintly.
A moment of comfortable silence settled between them.
Amber looked back toward the ice. “I’m probably going to keep competing for a while, and then coaching the juniors, maybe.” she said.
Alysa nodded. “I figured.”
“You’re okay with that?”
Alysa leaned back against the wall behind them.
“Of course I am.”
Amber turned toward her. “Different paths?”
Alysa nodded. “Same life.”
Amber studied her for a second. Then she reached over and nudged Alysa’s shoulder lightly.
“Good,” she said.
Alysa tilted her head toward her.
“Why?”
Amber stood up and stepped back over the barrier onto the ice. Before pushing off, she looked back.
“Because I plan on keeping you around.”
Isabeau visited often.
She never forced Alysa to talk, never tried to offer overly optimistic advice about moving forward. Sometimes she simply sat on the couch beside her while the television played quietly in the background.
One evening, about six weeks after the funeral, Alysa finally spoke first.
“Do you think it’s stupid?” she asked.
Isabeau glanced up from the mug of tea she had been holding. “What?”
Alysa leaned back against the couch and stared at the ceiling.
“Still expecting her to walk through the door.”
For a moment Isabeau said nothing. Then she shook her head.
“No.”
Alysa gave a quiet, tired laugh.
“She died in the hospital. I watched it happen. I signed the paperwork. I stood at the funeral.” Her voice softened. “So why does my brain keep thinking she’s just late?”
Isabeau leaned back in her chair, studying her carefully.
“Because you loved her.”
Alysa exhaled slowly.
“That seems like a human default flaw.”
Winter arrived with quiet determination. Snow began covering the sidewalks, and the early darkness of evening made the house feel even emptier.
Eventually Alysa returned to work. Her coworkers treated her gently at first, speaking in careful tones and offering sympathetic smiles that made every interaction feel slightly uncomfortable.
“How are you doing?”
“Take all the time you need.”
“We’re here if you need anything.”
Alysa appreciated the kindness, but she hated the conversations. They made the loss feel official, permanent in a way she wasn’t ready to accept.
So she buried herself in routine instead.
Work. Gym. Groceries.
Structure helped. Even when the days felt mechanical, the predictability made things easier to manage.
By spring, the sharp edge of grief had softened slightly.
It hadn’t disappeared. Alysa doubted it ever would. But the constant ache had settled into something quieter.
One afternoon she found herself walking through a park she and Amber used to visit on weekends. Flowers had begun blooming along the path, and sunlight filtered through the trees in soft patches of gold.
She sat on a bench and watched people pass by.
Couples holding hands.
Parents pushing strollers.
Life moving forward with casual momentum.
Alysa leaned back and closed her eyes.
For a moment she imagined Amber sitting beside her. Calm. Silent. Watching the world with the quiet focus she always had.
The image was so clear it almost felt real.
Nearly a year after the funeral, Alysa returned to the cemetery.
The weather had changed completely. Summer sunlight warmed the grass, and the air smelled faintly of wildflowers.
Amber’s headstone stood quietly among the others.
Amber Glenn
1988 — 2025
Alysa crouched down and brushed a few fallen leaves away from the base of the stone.
“You’d hate this place,” she murmured.
Amber had never liked overly sentimental gestures. Cemeteries definitely counted.
Alysa sat on the grass beside the grave and looked up at the sky.
“You know what’s weird?” she said quietly.
The wind moved softly through the trees.
“I keep imagining you somewhere calm.”
She smiled faintly.
“Like… you finally built the perfect skating rink.”
Amber had always loved the quiet of early morning ice—the empty rink before practice began.
Alysa lay back on the grass and watched the clouds drift slowly overhead.
She imagined Amber nodding thoughtfully.
Efficient.
Simple.
Quiet.
Alysa laughed under her breath.
“Yeah,” she said. “That sounds like you.”
She stayed there for a long time before finally standing.
As she walked away, the sunlight briefly reflected off the polished surface of the headstone, catching the sky like a mirror.
Bright.
Endless.
Quiet.