Chapter 15 - THE SECOND FUNERAL
We opened the envelope with attorneys and independent witnesses.
Inside was a funeral program.
ROSE BENNETT.
Date of service: tomorrow.
Same Savannah cemetery.
The program listed Arthur as grieving husband, though he remained in prison.
A current photograph showed us standing around a fresh grave in the exact positions from ten years earlier.
Then the cemetery security feed activated.
Cloudy sky.
White lilies.
Mourners in black.
Arthur stood beside a new grave, unchanged by age.
He pointed toward three young girls who looked exactly like Lucy, Rachel, and April had at the first funeral.
“Those beasts will be sent to the orphanage. I deserve a fresh start.”
A younger version of me stepped between them.
A child Lucy removed an envelope from behind Rose’s photograph.
The feed was live.
We drove to the cemetery with police.
The gates were locked.
Inside, the young girls turned toward our headlights.
The grave marker read:
ROSE BENNETT
FIRST DEATH — 2016
SECOND DEATH — 2026
The coffin began knocking from inside.
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
Rose stood beside me, alive.
Yet her voice came from beneath the ground.
“Dad... don’t let Arthur open the envelope.”
Every phone in our car lit up.
THE FAMILY NEVER ESCAPED THE FIRST FUNERAL.
Lucy opened the new envelope.
Inside were three programs.
LUCY — DECEASED.
RACHEL — DECEASED.
APRIL — DECEASED.
My granddaughters stood alive beside me.
The cemetery gates opened by themselves.
The younger girls walked toward us carrying framed photographs of their adult versions.
The child Lucy faced the woman she would become.
“Mom said only one version gets to leave.”
The coffin burst open.
A woman climbed out wearing Rose’s funeral dress.
Her face shifted beneath the cemetery lights.
Claire.
Evelyn.
Rose.
Then back again.
She held the original envelope.
“The trust no longer transfers money,” she said.
“It transfers identity.”
Arthur raised his phone.
Every mourner lifted theirs.
BENNETT SUCCESSION — FINAL MATCH REQUIRED.
The system began comparing the younger and older girls.
Lucy against Lucy.
Rachel against Rachel.
April against April.
Rose whispered, “If it chooses the children, the women disappear from every record.”
“And if it chooses the women?”
“The children were never born.”
The loading bars reached ninety-nine percent.
The younger April ran toward me.
“Grandpa... don’t let him leave us.”
Adult April reached for her.
The lights went dark before their hands touched.
The envelope in my hand opened by itself.
Inside was one final instruction in Eleanor’s handwriting:
May you like
CHARLES, CHOOSE WHICH GRANDDAUGHTERS YOU REMEMBER.
Then every girl in the cemetery called me Grandpa at once.
