Unable to endure his wife’s funeral, the man hurried away early from the cemetery…

Alex Thompson stood by the freshly dug grave of his wife Olivia, clutching a black umbrella in his hands, even though it wasn’t raining yet. Just holding something made it easier than letting his arms hang limply at his sides. Around him crowded Olivia’s relatives: her sister Mary with her husband David, cousins, aunts, distant kin he only saw at funerals and weddings.

They all said the right words of condolence, but Alex felt something false in their voices, something rehearsed, like they were acting in a bad play. «Alex, hang in there!» Mary whispered, hugging his shoulder. Her voice trembled with tears, but Alex noticed her eyes were dry.

Olivia was such a good person, such a bright soul. The Lord took her too soon. But she’s in heaven now, watching over us.

Alex nodded mechanically, not listening to these banal comforts. It still hadn’t sunk in. Just a week ago, Olivia was heading to her grandfather Nicholas’s funeral in Riverton.

Grandpa died suddenly of a heart attack at 82. Olivia was the only granddaughter who truly loved the old man and visited him regularly in recent years. The other relatives only showed up for major holidays, if at all, finding him grumpy and boring.

«I’ll go alone,» she said then, kissing her husband goodbye. Alex remembered every detail of that morning: how she stood at the mirror in the hallway, adjusting her black blouse, wiping her reddened eyes with a tissue. «You know how much Grandpa loved me.

I want to see him off properly, as he deserves. I’ll sit by the coffin, talk to the neighbors, see if anyone needs help. Maybe we should go together?» Alex suggested then.

«It’s a long drive, you’re upset. No, honey. You have that important presentation at the office tomorrow, don’t mess it up for me.

I’ll manage. Grandpa always said I was the strongest of all his granddaughters.» Those were her last words.

On the way back late Monday evening, the accident happened. According to police, Olivia lost control on the wet road after rain; the car veered off the highway, flipped, and caught fire. By the time emergency services arrived, it was too late.

Alex remembered that call at half-past six Tuesday morning. The officer’s voice was tired and official, but with genuine sympathy. «Mr. Thompson? You need to come to Riverton right away.

Your wife was in a serious car accident. Is she? Is she alive?» Alex whispered, already knowing from the tone. «I’m sorry, no.

Death occurred at the scene. My deepest condolences.» The rest was a nightmare fog.

Sleepless night, drive to Riverton at dawn, hospital morgue with its choking smell of formalin and death. The identification was a real horror; Olivia’s face was so disfigured by fire and glass shards that it was unbearable to look. Mary sobbed nearby; David held her hand and whispered something in her ear, trying to comfort her and himself.

«Alex, don’t torture yourself,» Mary begged when the pathologist offered him to enter the morgue for final identification. «Remember her beautiful, as she was in life. Don’t look at what’s left.

That’s not her, just a mangled shell.» But the procedure was mandatory. Alex forced himself into the cold room and looked at what lay under the white sheet.

Charred hair, mutilated face, but the build, her wedding ring, it all matched. Documents, ID, and driver’s license were found in her purse, which miraculously survived in the trunk. «It’s her,» he said with difficulty, turning away from the table.

«It’s my wife.» Olivia’s relatives handled the rest of the formalities; they insisted on a closed casket. They organized the transport of the body back to the city.

They arranged the wake and chose the cemetery plot. «You see, Alex,» David explained when they discussed funeral details at a roadside cafe, «after such a terrible accident, it’s better for people to remember Olivia alive and beautiful. Otherwise, gossip might start; you know how folks love discussing tragedies like this.

They’ll say she wasn’t buckled up, or she’d been drinking, or something like that.» Alex agreed. He didn’t care.

Olivia was gone—that’s what mattered. Everything else seemed trivial, unworthy of attention. What difference did flowers or the number of cars in the procession make?

The main thing had happened: his life split into before and after. Now, standing by the grave on this sunny October day, he looked at the wreaths and flowers, at the faces of people giving speeches about how wonderful Olivia was, and felt nothing. Emptiness.

As if Olivia had taken his soul with her, leaving only an empty shell that mechanically nodded to condolences and thanked for kind words. «Rest in peace, dear sister,» Mary sniffled, throwing a handful of dirt on the coffin lid. «Forgive us all for not protecting you.

Forgive us for not holding you back that day.» Interesting phrase: «forgive us all.» Forgive for what? But Alex didn’t dwell on the words.

Grief makes people strange, makes them say nonsense, seek guilt where there is none. The ceremony dragged on. The minister read prayers; his voice droned monotonously in the cemetery silence…