CONTESSA DOESN’T UNDERSTAND GRIEF

The funeral home was quiet. Muted conversations filled the space, voices hushed out of respect, and soft organ music played from hidden speakers, low and unobtrusive. The air smelled of polished wood and lilies, a delicate contrast to the heaviness of the room.

Contessa stood near the back, watching.

Maggie was by the casket, speaking in low tones to a woman clutching a crumpled tissue in shaking hands. Her face was drawn, eyes red-rimmed with grief. Around her, mourners carried their sorrow in different ways—silent tears, bowed heads, a comforting touch on a shoulder.

Contessa had seen death before.

She had seen lives reduced to statistics, loss measured in probabilities and consequences. Death was a shift in numbers, a piece removed from the board. It was a reality—the one, common denominator. 

But this ritual—this display of mourning—was something else entirely.

Maggie returned, her usual warmth dimmed. She exhaled, rubbing her arms. “Thanks for coming.”

Contessa nodded. “It is expected to provide support in these circumstances.”

Maggie glanced at her, then away. “Yeah. It is.”

They stood in silence, watching as another person approached the casket, their sobs barely contained. Contessa observed their shoulders trembling, the way their fingers gripped the polished wood like an anchor.

“This reaction is irrational,” she said finally.

Maggie turned to her, eyes sharp. “Excuse me?”

“Death is inevitable. The outcome does not change regardless of emotion.”

Maggie’s expression hardened, and Contessa could spy her fists clenching at her sides. “Jesus, hon. That’s not the point.”

Contessa tilted her head. “Then what is?”

Maggie let out a slow breath, eyes dark with something unreadable. “It’s not about logic. It’s about—” She gestured vaguely, frustration threading through her voice. “It’s about love. Loss. About remembering. It’s proof that someone mattered—that they were here, and now they’re not. And that hurts.”

Contessa looked back at the grieving family, at the raw ache etched into their faces.

She had lost things before. People. Pieces of herself. Her purpose. She had walked away from Cauldron, from certainty of the path that had dictated her entire existence.

But she had never grieved.

Not like this.

Maggie’s fingers brushed against hers, hesitant. “You don’t have to understand it,” she murmured. “Just… be here.”

Contessa didn’t move for a long time.

Then, carefully, she laced their fingers together.