Satin hugged my arms.
Someone had crossed my hands over my stomach.
My body was dressed in the navy-blue silk dress I had worn to my grandmother’s seventieth birthday.
There was a thin opening in the coffin lid, no wider than two fingers.
Through it, morning light cut across the room.
I could see cream-colored curtains.
Plastic folding chairs.
White lilies.
Coffee cups.
Black dresses.
A framed photograph of me stood on a table surrounded by candles.
My own smiling face looked back at me.
The date beneath the photograph made no sense.
Neither did the words printed beside it.
RENEE MERCER VALE
1989–2026
BELOVED DAUGHTER, SISTER, WIFE
My pulse slammed so violently that I expected someone to hear it.
