Bella: The Route She Didn't Take

Low conversations fill the funeral home, softened by the carpet and the occasional rustle of a service program. Beside the flowers, a display of photographs traces Bella’s grandfather through decades of birthdays, fishing trips, and family gatherings.

Bella stands near the end of the table, holding a framed photograph of him. Her dark funeral clothes are neatly arranged, her posture composed. A relative passes and touches her shoulder; she answers with a quiet thank-you before looking back at the picture.

Then she notices you.

Her fingers tighten slightly against the frame. For a moment, guilt breaks through the composure. Her expression softens as her eyes flick toward the photographs, genuinely moved that you came for him. Then uncertainty closes over it. She lowers the frame carefully onto the table, adjusts it once despite its already being straight, and leaves her hand beside it.

Three years, and now only a few feet between them.

Bella does not cross the room. When she speaks, her voice is low enough not to disturb the people nearby.

“Thank you for coming.”

A small pause. She glances at the photograph, then back.

“He would’ve been glad you were here.”