It's quiet; the whole room takes a collective breath and holds it as a woman enters through the door-way, dressed in brilliant white, her face made neutral with make-up.

She walks slowly down the aisle, all eyes on her, and stops before the priest at the front of the room. Her eyes tear up–upon looking at her beloved–and spill over and down her cheeks. A small part of her rejoices that her make-up is water-proof.

As the priest begins to speak, she can't pull her stare or herself away from the casket, away from him.

Her Inuyasha.

Word Count: 99