They met in front of the scar on the wall, their bouquets dwindled down to a few flowers each. Bel looked exhausted, but there was peace in his eyes. Lily took his flowers and joined them with her own, then set them on the ground in front of the scar. “For the ones we don’t know to mourn,” she said hoarsely. “For the ones we don’t know to mourn,” he murmured. Bel slipped his arm around her, pressing his nose to her hair and letting out a long breath. Bel’s rite—their rite—was done.
Mourning is an act of healing
