The parlor of the Montrose family home had never held so much silence. Where laughter and the scent of rosemary bread usually lingered, there was now only the heavy stillness of mourning. The coffin rested in the center of the room, surrounded by roses that had already begun to bow under the heat of dozens of candles. Relatives whispered in hushed tones, neighbors murmured condolences, children darted about without comprehension, and the adults carried the weight of grief with weary hands.
Yet the person who drew every eye was not the man in the coffin, Alistair Montrose, gone too soon at forty-two. It was his daughter, eight-year-old Elodie.
She had not moved since they had returned from the funeral home. Perched on a wooden chair pulled close to the casket, she stood on tiptoe, her small palms pressed against the polished oak. In her pale blue dress, hair ribbons crooked from the day’s rush, and scuffed black shoes, she gazed at her father’s face with unblinking devotion.
“Elodie, sweetheart, come sit with me for a while,” her mother pleaded softly, touching her shoulder. “You need to eat something.”
The child shook her head, her eyes never leaving the still figure inside.
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