The funeral took place three days later. The sky was gray and a light rain fell quietly over the cemetery.

  Only a few people came—some relatives, a few neighbors, and two of Emily’s old friends. Most people stayed away, not out of cruelty but out of discomfort.

  Because everyone knew the story.

  Everyone had heard the rumors.

  The strange child. The predictions. The accident.

  They stood near the back of the cemetery whispering quietly, watching Angel from a distance.

  Angel stood beside me, her small hand resting calmly in mine. She wore a black coat slightly too big for her. Her face expressionless.

  The priest spoke softly about life, loss, and peace. But none of it seemed to reach the ground beneath our feet.

  The coffin was lowered slowly into the earth. The ropes creaked, the sound hollow and final.

  Angel watched without blinking.

  I waited for her to cry—for some sign that she understood what had happened. But she remained completely still.

  When the ceremony ended people approached carefully, offering polite condolences while avoiding Angel’s eyes.

  “She was a good woman,” someone said. “She loved that child very much.”

  I nodded, thanked them, answered their questions.

  But most conversations ended quickly.

  Because sooner or later their eyes drifted toward Angel.

  And the silence returned.

  After everyone left the cemetery grew quiet again—only the rain and the wind moving through the trees.

  Angel stood in front of the grave for a long time, looking down at the freshly turned soil.

  “Is Mom gone?” she asked.

  The question caught me off guard.

  I crouched beside her. “Yes.”

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  Angel thought about that.

  “But you said people don’t disappear.”

  I realized she was remembering something I once told her about memories—about how people live on in the hearts of those who remember them.

  “That’s true,” I said softly. “She’s still part of us.”

  Angel looked at the grave again.

  “She’s quieter now,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  Angel didn’t answer.

  The rain grew heavier, so we left the cemetery and went home.

  Home felt like a strange word now.

  Emily’s apartment had always been filled with small sounds—music, footsteps, laughter, the clatter of dishes.

  Now it felt hollow.

  Angel wandered slowly through the living room, studying the photographs on the wall: Emily smiling in old vacation pictures, Emily holding a newborn Angel, Emily laughing.

  She stopped in front of one photo and touched the glass.

  “She was happy here,” Angel said.

  “Yes,” I replied. “She was.”

  That night Angel slept in the bedroom beside mine for the first time since Emily’s death.

  I lay awake for hours listening to the quiet apartment and the distant hum of traffic outside.

  Finally I got up and walked to Angel’s room.

  She was sitting upright in bed, awake, looking toward the door.

  “You can’t sleep either?” I asked.

  Angel shook her head.

  “Too many thoughts.”

  I sat beside her on the bed. The night lamp filled the room with a soft glow.

  “Do you miss your mom?” I asked.

  Angel thought carefully.

  “Yes.”

  Her answer was simple and honest.

  Then she looked at me.

  “You’re sad too,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  Angel studied me longer than usual.

  Then she spoke again.

  “You have a secret.”

  My chest tightened instantly.

  “Everyone has secrets,” I said, trying to sound casual.

  Angel shook her head slowly.

  “This one is different.”

  Something cold moved through my body.

  “What do you mean?”

  Angel’s eyes remained fixed on mine.

  “In your drawer.”

  My breath caught.

  “The photo.”

  The room suddenly felt smaller.

  Angel continued softly.

  “You and her.”

  I stood up suddenly, the chair scraping loudly across the floor.

  “That’s enough,” I said.

  Angel tilted her head, watching me.

  “She was sixteen,” Angel said quietly.

  My hands began to shake.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Angel answered calmly.

  “Her name was Shen Wei.”

  The words hit me like a physical blow.

  The room went completely silent.

  Because that name—

  that memory—

  had been buried for seventeen years.

  A secret I had never told anyone.

  Not even Emily.

  Angel’s voice remained gentle.

  “She had leukemia.”

  My legs felt weak. I sat slowly on the edge of the bed.

  “She asked you to meet her that day,” Angel continued.

  “You said you were tired.”

  “You stayed home.”

  My heart pounded violently.

  “She waited on the hospital roof until it got dark.”

  I closed my eyes.

  But the memory had already returned.

  Clear.

  Painful.

  Unavoidable.

  “She jumped,” Angel finished softly.

  Tears blurred my vision.

  “That was my secret,” I whispered.

  Angel looked at me calmly.

  “Not anymore.”

  She lay back down and pulled the blanket over her shoulders.

  Within minutes she was asleep.

  But I remained sitting there in the dim light, listening to the quiet room.

  For the first time since Emily died, I understood something terrifying.

  Angel didn’t just know the secrets people told.

  Or the secrets people hid.

  She knew the ones buried so deeply we barely remembered them ourselves.

  And now I was the one responsible for raising her.

  Which meant one thing.

  Every secret I had ever tried to forget—

  Was no longer safe.