The dregs of the funeral tea are cold, a tan film forming over the surface of Bethan’s forgotten cup. Rain beats a steady, rhythmic tattoo against the leaded glass of her childhood parlor, blurring the Welsh hills into a smear of bruised purple. Across the lace-covered table, Uncle Gwyn sits like a monument of salt, his breathing a shallow, papery rasp that fills the silence her mother left behind.
He looks smaller than he did at the graveside, his black suit hanging off shoulders that seem to have surrendered to the weight of the day. Bethan watches his liver-spotted hands, gnarled and shaking, as they rest atop a cardboard surface she hasn’t seen in twenty-six years. The room smells of lilies and damp wool, the suffocating scent of a village that prides itself on keeping its secrets buried in the same soil as its dead.
He’s been holding onto this since Jenna vanished, she thinks, the realization hitting her with a sickening thud. Gwyn’s trembling, liver-spotted hand pushes the dusty shoebox across the lace tablecloth, the lid sliding an inch to the left.
