The heavy rain that had been drumming relentlessly against the tall windows of the funeral hall finally began to subside, its fury retreating into a soft, rhythmic drizzle. The air remained thick and damp, carrying with it the cloying perfume of hundreds of flowers — lilies, roses, and chrysanthemums — all suffocatingly beautiful, all trying in vain to mask the scent of grief that clung to the room.
At the center of it all rested the coffin — creamy white with silver trim, its polish gleaming faintly under the dim chandeliers. It looked too perfect, too peaceful, for something that held the remains of a woman who had once been so vibrantly alive.
Tabitha Hariss sat motionless in a massive burgundy chair draped in velvet, the kind reserved for the closest mourners. Her fingers twisted nervously in her lap. Around her, the hall felt like an echoing void — all those empty seats amplifying her loneliness. Only Aunt Ruth sat beside her, her mother's half-sister, face buried in a soaked plaid handkerchief. Ruth's shoulders trembled with every muffled sob, and the sound carved through Tabitha like glass.
Tabby's throat ached with that bitter, metallic taste that comes from trying too hard not to cry. Yet the tears came anyway, silent and steady, tracing cold paths down her cheeks before falling onto the black fabric of her dress. The priest's voice droned in the distance, speaking words of comfort that sounded hollow and unreal — words meant to console, yet powerless against the heaviness expanding in her chest like dark wings.
She unclenched her fists slowly, leaving half-moon marks on her palms, and closed her eyes. If only I could go back. Just a few weeks. Just one more afternoon. Or maybe escape altogether — to the far edge of the universe where pain couldn't reach her. But the world didn't bend for desperate wishes. So she sat still, breathing in the perfume of roses and sorrow, while the soft strains of her mother's favorite song — "If You Leave My World" — played in the background, haunting and tender.
And suddenly, she saw her again.
Her mother, standing on the sunlit terrace of their house in Bedford, watering the overflowing geraniums that spilled from clay pots. Her soft laughter mixing with the hum of bees and the scent of freshly cut grass.
"You see, Tabby," she'd said, her eyes warm and proud, "you thought it was impossible, and yet here you are — almost through your first year of medical school. It's just a shame your grandmother didn't live to see it. She always wanted a doctor in the family. And since I didn't finish my studies… well, that dream rests with you."
Tabby rolled her eyes, pretending to pout. "Mom, don't start with that again. I'm just a beginner! I've barely held a scalpel, and anatomy feels like learning a new language — one that refuses to make sense."
Her mother smiled knowingly, tilting her head. "Hmm. And what is it they say, sweetheart?"
"That treating your own family is the greatest madness in the world," Tabby replied with a mischievous grin, leaning forward to kiss her on the cheek.
"What they say," her mother chuckled, "isn't always true. And don't think you can avoid it. I'm still here."
Tabby laughed then — that free, careless laugh that now hurt to remember. She couldn't have known how close the clock was to running out.
Her mother had always been her anchor. A single mother who'd carried the world on her shoulders with a kind of quiet grace. She'd sacrificed her own dreams of medicine, building a career instead in real estate — sharp, respected, successful enough to fund Tabby's costly education in London. And yet she never once complained. Every night she reminded her daughter that love and effort could rebuild entire worlds.
"I love you, Mom," Tabby had whispered that day, gently touching her shoulder. "If it weren't for you, I'd probably be a nurse somewhere, just handing out shots and filling charts."
Her mother smiled. "And what's wrong with that? But yes — you're meant for more, Tabby. You just don't see it yet."
"Fine," Tabby teased, "but how about I make tea and bring those chocolate chip cookies before your next client?"
Her mother laughed softly. "Alright. But only if it's now — I've got two contracts waiting. Let's sit a bit, and then I'll go."
Tabby nodded and ran off to the kitchen, never realizing that those would be the last words they'd ever share.
That evening, she was still awake long after midnight, her eyes sore from studying. With a groan, she closed her textbooks, pushing them into the drawer. Enough for today. All she could think about was a sandwich — thick with ham, cheese, and too many vegetables — and a cold glass of Coke to wash it down.
She'd barely taken her first sip when her phone began to ring, its cheerful tune slicing through the quiet. She smiled faintly and reached for it, still humming. The name on the screen made her pause. Aunt Ruth. At this hour?
"Hey, Auntie," she answered lightly. "What's going on?"
But what came next shattered her world.
"Darling," Ruth's voice trembled through the receiver, "come to the hospital. Now. Your mother's been in a serious car accident — it's bad, Tabby. Please, drive carefully… at least you—"
The rest dissolved into static in her mind. For a moment, Tabitha forgot how to breathe. Her vision blurred.
"Auntie? I'm—I'm coming," she managed, her voice cracking. She hung up before Ruth could say another word.
Her fingers shook as she fumbled with the car keys. The engine stuttered to life, and she pressed the accelerator hard, the tires screeching as she sped into the night — rain hammering the windshield like desperate hands.
But she never made it in time.
By the time Tabitha reached the hospital, her mother's heart had already stilled. The world had changed — quietly, cruelly — while she was still racing against it.
Now, sitting in that funeral hall, staring at the coffin that separated before and after, Tabitha realized that from her old life, only fragments remained — memories like fragile glass shards, cutting and beautiful.
Somewhere, fate was already drawing a new path for her. A path she neither asked for nor understood. But it was waiting — patient, dark, and inevitable.