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And every single time it hurts exactly as much as the first.

I sit there for a long time after that. Long enough for the tears to stop and for the worst of it to sink back beneath the surface.

It isn’t gone. It never will be. But it’s buried deep enough that I can force myself to breathe and stand. My legs feel unsteady at first, but they hold. The man staring back at me from the mirror looks like hell. His eyes are red. His expression is hollow. He looks exactly like a man getting ready to bury his wife.

I turn on the faucet and splash cold water on my face until most of the red is gone. Nobody’s expecting me to be okay. They’re expecting me to get through today.

There's a difference.

I straighten the tie even though it still doesn't look right.

Raven would've fixed it. The thought almost knocks the air out of me again. But I don't let it. Not this time.

A church full of people is waiting down the mountain. Knox is out there carrying his own grief, and Jon’s already walked this road once before. They don't need to see me falling apart.

So, I do what I've done every day since the diagnosis.

I pull myself together, then I unlock the door and walk back into the cottage.

They can’t see how close I am to breaking.

Samuel

Jon’s standing by the front door when I come out of the bathroom, coat already on, gloves tucked beneath one arm. He’s watching the snow drift past the windows, still and quiet in a way that makes him look older than I’ve seen him look.

I stand there a second, unsure what to do or say, the tie still not sitting right against my collar, my chest still raw from everything that happened in the bathroom.

He turns when he hears me. His eyes hold mine a beat longer than they need to, and something passes between us that doesn’t require either of us to say it out loud. He knows exactly where I am right now. Not because he’s guessing, or being kind, or offering the kind of sympathy people hand out because it’s expected of them.

He’s lived it.

That's the thing nobody else seems to get. The condolences, the stories about how strong Raven was, all of it comes from a good place, but it comes from people standing on the outside of grief looking in. Jon’s not on the outside. Years ago, he stood exactly where I’m standing now and watched the person he loved disappear from a world that kept moving without her.

He knows what waits for me after today. After the casseroles stop showing up and people stop checking in.

"How'd you do it?" The question slips out before I decide to ask it.

For a moment, I don't think he's going to answer. His gaze drifts back toward the window, and I wonder if he's seeing the same thing I am. Not the tree, not the snow. Memories of his wife. The life they were supposed to have.

Finally, he lets out a slow breath. "You don't."

I frown.

His eyes find mine again. "You don't do it all at once, son."

The words stay with me, not because they're comforting, but because they aren't. They're awful. They're the closest thing to the truth anybody’s given me since Raven died.

Jon studies me for another moment before stepping closer. His hand settles briefly on the back of my neck, steady and familiar, and I'm reminded of every time I've seen him do the same thing to Raven. A father making sure his daughter knew she was loved.

The memory lands hard. He shouldn’t be standing here getting ready to bury his little girl.

"She loved you," he says quietly.

My throat tightens. Of all the things people have said to me this week, those four words hurt the most.

Jon squeezes the back of my neck once before letting go, then reaches for the door. "We should go."

I nod, because there’s nothing left worth saying