The dress fit perfectly.

  Of course it did.

  It had been preserved like everything else in this house — sealed in memory, unwrinkled by time. Black. Long sleeves. Structured waist. Modest neckline. The kind of dress that photographs well beside a casket.

  Mom stood behind me in the mirror and adjusted the collar as if fine-tuning a display mannequin.

  “You look beautiful,” she said softly.

  You look acceptable.

  I held her gaze in the reflection and smiled the way I used to. Not too wide. Not ironic. Controlled warmth.

  “Thank you.”

  Costume secured.

  The blonde sat slicked back, obedient and smooth. It made my face look softer. Smaller. More compliant.

  Dad paused in the hallway when I stepped out of my room.

  He didn’t say anything at first. He just looked.

  Then he nodded once.

  “Perfect.”

  Approved.

  The drive to the church was quiet. Snow had hardened overnight, turning sidewalks into pale glass. The sky hung low and colorless.

  Inside, the building smelled like coffee, carpet cleaner, and flowers trying too hard. Murmurs layered over each other in soft waves. Familiar faces. Familiar condolences.

  “Oh, Taylor. I’m so sorry.”

  “You came back.”

  “It’s been a while.”

  It has.

  I shook hands. Accepted hugs. Measured eye contact. Nodded at appropriate intervals.

  My name moved easily through the room.

  Taylor.

  Taylor.

  Taylor.

  Tag does not exist here.

  Mom stayed near my shoulder. Dad drifted but never too far. They were orbiting. Casual. Controlled.

  The service began. Hymns. Eulogies. Words like faithful and devoted and eternal.

  I kept my posture straight. Hands folded in my lap. Eyes forward.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Exemplary daughter.

  When it ended and people began standing, shifting, lining up to offer condolences, I let the room blur slightly. Not dissociation. Just soft focus.

  And then—

  I saw her.

  Near the back of the sanctuary. Dark coat. Hair pulled back. Shoulders squared the way they always are when she’s trying not to take up too much space.

  Auré.

  Of course.

  She was speaking to someone I didn’t recognize, nodding politely, hands clasped loosely in front of her. When she turned her head slightly, our eyes met.

  Recognition was instant.

  Not surprise.

  Just recognition.

  She started toward me.

  My spine went rigid before I could stop it.

  Steady.

  By the time she reached me, my expression was neutral. Calm. Grief-appropriate.

  “I heard when I got into town,” she said quietly. “I’m really sorry.”

  Her voice hasn’t changed.

  There are things your body remembers before your mind has time to intervene.

  “Thank you,” I said. Even. Measured.

  Don’t lean forward.

  She stepped closer, lowering her voice as if the room wasn’t already hushed.

  “I’m glad you’re here.”

  Are you?

  “I had to be,” I replied.

  That came out sharper than intended.

  She didn’t flinch.

  “I know,” she said gently.

  And then she touched my arm.

  Not dramatically. Not possessively. Just fingers against my sleeve, light pressure, the kind of touch meant to anchor someone.

  It was brief.

  It was devastating.

  Oh.

  My body reacted before my thoughts could form language.

  Heat — sudden, unwelcome, immediate — climbed up my spine. My breath caught, just slightly. The fabric of the dress felt thinner than it had a moment ago. My pulse stuttered, then sped up like it had been startled.

  We are in a church.

  There is a casket ten feet away.

  And here we are.

  She didn’t move her hand right away. Or maybe she did and I just registered it late.

  The contact lingered long enough.

  Long enough.

  It was strange to feel anything but grief in a room like that.

  Strange is generous.

  I kept my face composed.

  “I appreciate you coming,” I said.

  Academy Award.

  Inside, something had tilted.

  Not just arousal — that would be too simple. It was recognition. Muscle memory. The echo of a thousand smaller touches layered beneath this one.

  It unsettled me.

  It thrilled me.

  The wrongness of it sharpened it further. The contrast between black dress and white coffin and the heat gathering low in my stomach.

  This is inappropriate.

  That’s part of it.

  She was still watching my face. Searching for something.

  “You’ve been okay?” she asked softly.

  “Yes,” I said.

  No.

  “I’ve been busy.”

  Distracted.

  Her thumb shifted slightly against my sleeve.

  Another small spark.

  I swallowed.

  Do not react.

  Do not react.

  Do not—

  Mom appeared beside me.

  Effortless. Well-timed.

  “Auré,” she said warmly. “It’s so nice of you to come.”

  Warden.

  Auré stepped back, her hand dropping from my arm.

  The loss of contact was immediate. Noticeable.

  Don’t chase it.

  “Of course,” Auré replied politely. “I was in town already.”

  Dad joined the cluster, smile practiced.

  “How are your parents?” he asked.

  Territorial civility.

  “They’re good,” she said. “They send their condolences.”

  Mom nodded approvingly.

  “That’s very kind.”

  We see you.

  I stood between them, posture perfect, pulse still slightly elevated beneath the fabric of the dress.

  Auré’s eyes flicked back to mine once. Briefly. Questioning.

  She thinks I’m distant.

  She thinks I’m guarded.

  She thinks this is grief.

  Let her.

  “Maybe we could talk sometime,” she said, quiet enough that it didn’t register beyond us.

  There it was.

  An opening.

  “Yes,” I replied. Even. Unshaken.

  Absolutely.

  Mom’s hand settled lightly at the small of my back.

  A reminder.

  A claim.

  “Taylor,” she said softly, “we should go thank Mrs. Harper.”

  On cue.

  I stepped away from Auré without looking back immediately.

  Composed. Controlled. Daughter-shaped.

  The dress moved perfectly when I walked.

  It always does.

  But my arm still remembered the weight of her hand.

  And my body — traitor that it is — had not yet forgotten.