"To die would be an awfully big adventure."
―J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

It was a sea of black umbrellas. The patter of rain was joined by the dark heartbeats of a funeral drum, whose harrowing strikes came in constant rhythm – thump… thump… thump…

The casket was dark wood, cheaply stained and already chipping at the edges. It was obviously the best casket that could be purchased by a monetary deprived family. It sunk slowly into its hole in the ground – a hole that would become its permanent residence, and the body its permanent resident.

Thump… thump…

Wet, cold earth was thrown by the shovels full into the grave. The final drumbeat struck the air in harmony with the final shovel of soil.

Boom.

The cluster of umbrellas stayed still for a long moment after the drum plunged into silence. Most of the umbrella bearers shed no tears, most of them didn't react at all. Most of them stared at the fresh plot of ground in reverence, but not in sorrow. They had little connection to the lifeless corpse under the dirt – they were only distant friends attending the funeral out of sympathy for the few who actually mourned.

Four of them, exactly. Three stood by the graveside, crying and clinging to one another. One of them eventually fell to his knees and dug his fingers desperately into the grass. The other two tried desperately to muffle their sobs behind black sleeves.

There were four who mourned. But only three at the gravesite.

A silhouette stood on the other side of the cemetery, far away from the burial itself but close enough to see the casket and hear the drum. A silhouette whose hands were tucked deeply in jacket pockets, who stood with a straight back, whose dark hair swayed gently with the breeze. A silhouette that mourned deeply and completely over the death of her friend, but stayed upright and tearless.

January was still, quiet, and calm. But she mourned all the same.

Eventually, the funeral goers went their separate ways. The sea of black eventually trickled to only a select few at the gravesite – those who seemed incapable of leaving their loved one alone in the ground. The idea that they would be going home without her – that her beautiful skin and laughter would be swallowed by the earth – it tore them apart. January watched as they cried themselves to exhaustion, said their weary final goodbyes, and left through the tall gates of the cemetery.

Left alone in the graveyard, January considered walking to the burial site and saying her own words. But she stayed put.

What would she even say? Would she apologize? Would she thank the girl for her friendship? This was one funeral of hundreds, and January was sick of the game. But she walked to it anyway, weaving her way through half-eroded stone angels and nameless gravestones that she recognized from decades past.

"How old were you again?" January asked with a tilted head. Her eyes skimmed the gravestone and she blinked the forming tears away from her eyes. Her heart stung as she said the number aloud. "Ah… twenty four… that's right…"

The patter of raindrops was her only response.

"You had so much to live for. You could tell how much your husband cares about you, the way he was clawing at the ground... Weren't you studying at university to be an artist?" January laughed sadly. "Don't you know you can't make much money in that study? I mean, your casket is all bumped at the corners and…" her laughter faded out. Gently, carefully, she added, "You know? You beat me in the race. I rarely have people leave me before I leave them."

She hesitated for a moment, letting the rain kiss her face in the cold. Her fingers moved to undo her jacket's buttons, and from within her coat she removed a single lavender rose trimmed with black feathers. "Sweet dreams." She placed the wilting rose carefully at the headstone, her fingers brushing over the thorns of the stem as she let it go.

And with that, January's slender silhouette stalked across the cemetery. Her heart was haunted by the ever familiar funeral drum.

Thump… thump… thump…