Fine Gentleman.

The rain lashed against the funeral home windows, a relentless drumbeat that mirrored the rhythm of Amy's pounding heart. Each drop felt like a tiny hammer blow, chipping away at the fragile dam of her composure.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of lilies and subdued grief. Amy sat stiffly in the second pew, her black dress clinging uncomfortably to her damp skin.

Amy looked across the aisle, her gaze landing on the simple golden casket adorned with a single spray of white roses.

It was absurd, unthinkable, that vibrant, life-loving Miley was in there. A couple of weeks ago, they'd been giggling over coffee, planning weekend adventures. Now, all that remained was a cold, unfeeling box.

Her gaze darted from the casket to Miley's tear-streaked parents who were seated in the first pew, their faces etched with a grief so raw it seemed to have leached the color from their skin.