The next day, the wake took place in the grand hall of the manor, as was customary for a family of Pierre’s status. Heavy black drapes covered the tall windows, casting long shadows over the solemn gathering. Candles flickered atop the polished casket, their dim glow illuminating not just Nicolette, but the tiny, lifeless baby cradled in her arms, who Pierre decided to name Paul. He rested against his mother’s chest, swaddled in white linen, as if she had merely fallen asleep holding him. His soft blonde hair, identical to Pierre’s, curled faintly over his forehead, his tiny fingers barely visible beneath the folds of fabric, and his lips, tinged with a faint purple hue, were slightly parted, still, and silent.

Nicolette was dressed in a fine white gown—the color of mourning for a young woman taken too soon—her red hair carefully arranged, and her hands folded gently over Paul’s small body. She looked peaceful, almost serene, as though she were merely resting.

Pierre stood beside them, motionless, his sky-blue eyes hollow and distant. He had barely moved since dawn, his body stiff, as though frozen in time. His golden hair, usually neat and effortlessly charming, was unkempt, falling messily over his forehead. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, his face gaunt from grief and exhaustion. Since the moment he had woken, he had refused to eat or rest, his body and spirit worn thin by the weight of his loss.

His elderly mother, Madame Dupont, stood beside him, her frail hands clasped tightly before her, silent tears streaking down her wrinkled cheeks. Pierre’s younger sister, Elisabeth, had her face hidden behind a black lace veil, her body trembling with quiet sobs. Pierre, along with his mother and sister, were the only family members attending. Nicolette was an orphan; she had lost her parents during the French Revolution when she was little. The rest of the people gathered in the hall were house staff and close friends of the couple, their presence a somber reminder of the life Nicolette had built with effort and dedication.

The air was thick with incense, the scent of burning myrrh and wax clinging to every surface, mixing with the heavy perfume of flowers. Mourners whispered amongst themselves, their words hushed, as if afraid to disturb the dead. Ivonne and the rest of the maids stood at a respectful distance, their hands clasped, their eyes red from weeping. Gabriel, however, stood slightly apart from them, his posture unnaturally straight, his dark gaze fixed on Pierre’s expressionless face. His presence was as unreadable as ever, his thoughts hidden behind a mask of calm detachment.

By midday, the funeral procession began.

Outside, the sky was a heavy shade of gray, thick clouds looming over the cemetery where Nicolette and Paul would be laid to rest. A slow march of black-clad mourners followed the hearse, drawn by two solemn horses draped in dark mourning cloth. The bells of the church tolled in the distance, their deep, somber chimes marking each step closer to their final resting place.

Pierre walked at the front, leading the procession, his body moving as if guided by some unseen force. He no longer felt the cool wind against his skin, no longer heard the hushed whispers of the mourners behind him. His mind was numb, his body nothing more than a husk carrying a broken soul.

The cemetery was quiet, save for the rustling of leaves and the soft murmurs of the priest delivering last rites. The stone path was damp from the morning mist, the headstones standing in solemn rows like silent watchers of grief. As the casket was lowered into the earth, Pierre stood still, his breathing shallow, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

The priest’s voice was steady as he recited the funeral prayer, the Latin words weaving through the air like a dirge:

“Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis.”

*Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. *

Pierre’s knees buckled, and he fell to the ground, his body wracked with sobs as he finally screamed in agony, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached, his breath shallow and uneven. His Nicolette, his wife—the woman who had filled his world with laughter, who had given him their children, who had been the love of his life—and the son he would never get to know—were gone. Buried beneath the cold, unfeeling earth.

His mother gently touched his arm, her grip light but grounding. He barely registered it.

One by one, the mourners stepped forward, dropping white flowers into the grave as was tradition. Pierre’s mother and sister sobbed quietly behind him, their grief a quiet counterpoint to his raw, unrelenting anguish. Ivonne trembled as she whispered a soft farewell before stepping back, her hands clutching her apron as though it were the only thing holding her together. Meanwhile, Gabriel remained in the background, a silent spectator, his deep brown eyes fixed on the scene before him.

As time passed, the funeral site slowly emptied. One by one, the mourners drifted away, their whispers fading into the rustling of wind through the cemetery trees. The priest left first, his black robes billowing slightly as he walked with measured steps. The household staff followed, their red-rimmed eyes cast downward, their hands clasped tightly as they made their way back to the manor. Even Madame Dupont and Elisabeth, despite their reluctance, had to leave when the sky darkened further, thick storm clouds rolling in. The wind had grown sharper, biting at their exposed skin, carrying with it the earthy scent of rain-soaked soil and the faint tang of damp stone. The distant rumble of thunder warned that the weather would soon turn worse, the air heavy with the promise of a storm.

Only two figures remained.

Pierre and Gabriel.

Gabriel stood a short distance away, his posture relaxed but his gaze unwavering. His arms remained crossed, his boots planted firmly against the damp earth, his coat billowing slightly with each cold gust of wind. He was waiting. Waiting for Pierre to break even more. It was an amusing sight, in a way. Pierre had always been larger than life—untouchable, charming, the kind of man who seemed to glide through the world with effortless grace. But here, now, he was nothing more than a crumpled figure, pathetic and raw in his suffering. Gabriel had never seen him like this, and he savored every second of it.

‘This is what loss looks like, Pierre,’ Gabriel thought, a faint grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

Pierre lay sprawled over her grave, his body curled into the damp soil as if trying to bury himself alongside his wife. His shoulders trembled violently, his fingers clawing into the freshly turned earth, clenching handfuls of wet mud in his fists. His screams echoed through the cemetery—loud, desperate, agonized.

“Nicolette!” His voice cracked as he sobbed, his cries gut-wrenching, unrestrained. He wailed her name, again and again, as though sheer force could bring her back into existence. His golden hair, disheveled and damp with sweat, stuck to his red forehead. His breathing was ragged, uneven, punctuated by sharp, shuddering gasps that barely filled his lungs. “What am I supposed to do without you?”

Gabriel’s lips twitched. ‘This is what it feels like.’

He could have left. Could have turned away and let Pierre drown in his own misery. But he had to play the role of the good friend and servant, so he stayed. And it wasn’t as if Gabriel wanted to leave. Watching Pierre’s screams, his broken sobs, every gasp of pain—Gabriel felt a strange thrill, a dark pleasure he had been anticipating for years.

Grief poured from Pierre in waves, raw and unrestrained. He dug his fingers deeper into the mud, his voice hoarse from crying. “Mon amour… don’t leave me. Don’t leave me like this.”

But the earth was silent, as was the whole world surrounding Pierre. The sun dipped lower, its last golden rays casting long shadows over the cemetery. And then, as if the heavens themselves grieved alongside Pierre, the first drops of rain began to fall.

At first, it was light—soft, almost hesitant, tapping gently against the headstones. The scent of wet earth thickened in the air, rich and heavy, mingling with the faint tang of rain. But within minutes, the rain grew heavier, soaking through Pierre’s clothes, turning the dirt beneath him into thick, clinging mud.

Gabriel sighed.

With a practiced motion, he shrugged off his coat, shaking it once before holding it over Pierre, shielding him from the worst of the downpour. But Pierre didn’t react. His body continued to heave with sobs, his fingers still curled into the wet ground as if by holding onto it, he could hold onto Nicolette. His breath came in short, broken gasps, his entire frame trembling—not from the cold, but from a grief too vast to bear.

Gabriel stood there, his coat growing heavier as the rain soaked through it, his expression unreadable. He watched Pierre, his deep brown eyes flickering with something that wasn’t pity, nor complete satisfaction. It was something colder, darker.

But Pierre remained frozen.

The world around him faded—it was all meaningless.

Nicolette was gone.

And with her, so was he.