The morning of my husband’s farewell began beneath a sky draped in muted gray. The clouds, heavy and unyielding, hung close to the earth as though they too felt the weight of sorrow that had settled upon us all. The air carried a faint chill, not sharp enough to sting but cool enough to remind every mourner present that the world had grown quieter, emptier, since Tom’s passing.

The procession moved slowly through the narrow street, footsteps muffled against damp cobblestones still touched by dawn’s mist. The silence of the crowd was broken only by the occasional shuffle of shoes or the soft rustle of coats brushed by a passing breeze. Heads were bowed, not only in respect but in contemplation of the man we had come to honor — a man whose warmth had once seemed to radiate far enough to reach even those who only crossed paths with him briefly.

Walking near the front, I clutched the folded handkerchief in my palm so tightly that my knuckles had gone pale. Each step felt heavier than the last, as though grief itself weighed down my body. At my side, Astoria — Tom’s horse — moved with steady grace, her dark coat glistening faintly despite the muted light. She had always been gentle, as though touched by some deeper understanding of the human heart. Her calm presence comforted me, and though I could not bear to look at the coffin ahead of us for long, her rhythmic steps were an anchor in the storm of my sorrow.

But then, without warning, something shifted.