Because of the Accident (Book 1)

Chapter 12

Today was the day, the day of Autumn's funeral. The funeral home smelled of lilies, their cloying sweetness permeating the air, and the scent alone was enough to make my stomach churn. It seemed wrong, somehow. Lilies were flowers for fresh starts and new beginnings, not for goodbyes. Not for *this*. I sat in the front row, my hands clenched tightly in my lap, staring at the polished mahogany casket that held Autumn. My eyes traced the glistening wood, every detail etched into my mind as if memorizing it could somehow make this more real, more bearable. But nothing about this felt real.

Autumn had hated flowers. "They're pretty, sure, but they die too fast," she used to say, her voice light, dismissive. "Why bother?" I could hear her voice in my head now, sarcastic and sharp as ever. I almost smiled at the memory, but it quickly faded. I wondered if she'd hate this, too—this whole funeral, this display of mourning. She'd have rolled her eyes at all the formality, the somber faces, and the quiet, heavy sadness that hung over the room like a fog. Autumn had never been one for dramatics, even though she seemed to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders during our last months together.

I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable in the stiff suit I hadn't worn in years. Next to me, her family sat in a tense silence, each of them caught in their own private grief. Miranda, her mother, sat the closest to me, her face pale and drawn, her eyes red-rimmed from the endless stream of tears she'd shed since the accident. She hadn't said much to me since the call—the call that shattered whatever fragile peace I'd been clinging to since our separation. Now, she was a hollow shell of the vibrant, warm woman I used to know. She hadn't spoken to me once during the funeral arrangements. Her coldness wasn't intentional, I told myself. It was just... grief. Or at least that's what I wanted to believe.

Charles, Autumn's father, sat on the other side of her. His broad shoulders hunched, head bowed, and hands clasped tightly in his lap. He hadn't looked at me once since I entered the chapel and he was silent, and I couldn't blame him. Now, that silence felt like a condemnation, heavy and final. He was disappointed, angry, hurt—perhaps all of those things wrapped into one. His daughter was gone, and I had nothing to offer him. No comfort, no peace, no explanation for the pain we all felt.

Jeremy, Autumn's younger brother, sat at the far end of the row, stiff and unreadable. He hadn't spoken to me since the night I'd left their family home, a lifetime ago, it seemed. Jeremy was never a man of many words, but I'd always known that his silence was often louder than anything he could say. His eyes were cold and distant, his jaw clenched tight, and every now and then I'd catch him glancing my way, only to quickly look away as if the sight of me disgusted him. We used to get along well enough, but in the end, I was the one who failed Autumn, not him. He was right to hate me for it. How could he not?

The minister stood at the front of the chapel, speaking in low, measured tones that echoed softly off the walls. His words blurred together in my mind—something about hope, about eternal peace, about the promise of heaven. I couldn't focus on any of it. It all felt so distant, so disconnected from the reality of what had happened. Autumn wasn't in some peaceful, eternal place. She was in that box, under layers of polished wood and white silk. She was cold and still, forever lost to the world. To me.

I couldn't shake the memories of her face, especially those final months when everything between us started to fall apart. The way she looked at me, her eyes full of frustration, sadness, and something else—something I hadn't been able to name back then. Maybe it was disappointment, or maybe it was just the kind of sadness that comes when you realize you can't fix what's broken. Our marriage had become a slow unraveling, one frayed thread at a time. I thought I had more time to put it back together, but time had run out.

The minister's voice faded as the final hymn began, and the somber notes of the organ filled the small chapel. Miranda's shoulders shook as she tried to hold back her sobs, but they escaped in shuddering breaths, each one sharper than the last. Charles placed a hand on her shoulder, his fingers trembling slightly as he tried to comfort her. But what comfort was there in this moment? What words could ease the pain of losing a daughter?

Jeremy didn't move. He stared straight ahead, his face expressionless, but I could see the tension in his posture, the way his fingers gripped the edge of the pew so tightly his knuckles turned white. I wondered what he was thinking, what memories of Autumn were running through his mind. Were they good ones? Or were they as bitter and tangled as mine?

The casket was lifted slowly, reverently, and I watched as it was carried to the gravesite just outside the chapel. The crisp autumn air hit me as I stepped outside, the cool breeze a sharp contrast to the stifling heat inside. The trees were ablaze with color, oranges and reds flickering like flames against the gray sky. Autumn would have loved this. She always said fall was her favorite season—something about the way everything seemed to burn bright before it died, a final burst of beauty before the cold set in.

I followed the procession in silence, my feet heavy, each step dragging me closer to the inevitable finality of it all. Miranda and Charles walked ahead of me, their arms linked, supporting each other as they made their way to the gravesite. Jeremy trailed behind them, his expression unreadable, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his black coat.

The small crowd gathered around the grave, and I found myself standing at the edge, staring down at the empty space where Autumn would be laid to rest. The ground was dark and freshly turned, the edges of the grave sharp and raw, like an open wound in the earth. I swallowed hard, my throat tight, my chest aching with a grief I couldn't fully comprehend.

The minister said a few final words, something about dust and ashes, and then it was time. One by one, we were invited to scatter dirt over the casket. Miranda stepped forward first, her hand shaking as she grasped a handful of earth and let it fall onto the casket below. "Goodbye, my sweet girl," she whispered, her voice cracking with the weight of her grief. Charles followed, his movements stiff and mechanical, like he was going through the motions because that's what was expected of him.

When it was my turn, I froze. The small mound of dirt felt impossibly heavy in my hand as I stood there, staring down at the casket. My mind raced with memories of Autumn—our first date, the way she laughed when I tried to impress her with bad jokes, the way she'd curl up next to me on the couch on lazy Sunday afternoons, her head resting on my shoulder as we watched old movies. The way her smile faded over time, the light in her eyes dimming as things between us unraveled.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, though I wasn't sure who I was apologizing to. To her? To myself? To everyone? I let the dirt slip through my fingers, watching as it fell onto the casket below. The sound of it hitting the wood was soft, almost gentle, but it felt like a punch to the gut. I turned away quickly, unable to bear the sight any longer.

Jeremy was the last to step forward. He stared down at the grave for a long moment before finally letting the dirt fall from his hand. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. His silence said more than words ever could.

As the ceremony came to an end, people began to drift away, offering quiet condolences to Miranda and Charles before leaving the cemetery. I stood there for a long time after they were gone, staring at the mound of earth that now covered Autumn's casket. It felt wrong to leave her here, alone in the cold ground. But what else could I do?

Miranda approached me slowly, her face streaked with tears. All she could do was look at me, unable to speak a word.

Her silence hit me like a wave, and I couldn't say anything to ease her pain. I couldn't. What could I say? That I blamed myself enough for the both of us?

She placed a hand on my arm, her touch light, tentative and then she walked away.

As I watched her walk away, arm in arm with Charles, I knew that I had to face the reality of what lay ahead. The truth was, Autumn was gone, and there was no bringing her back. But the ghosts of our past—of everything we had been to each other—would haunt me forever.

And as I stood there in the fading light, I realized something else. Even though she was gone, Autumn wasn't the only ghost lingering.