They dressed me in black silk.
Tailored by someone who probably doesn't believe in grief. Or maybe just doesn't care. The fabric clings to my ribs like a corset trying to suffocate emotion out of me. A matching veil drapes low across my face. Widow-coded. Perfectly composed. Camera-ready.
They told me exactly what to say.
A speech, written in bloodless font, pre-approved by the Communications Office, scrubbed clean of anything controversial. It even begins with "Today we gather not in mourning, but in unity…" As if that's supposed to matter. As if the man in the casket wasn't a walking contradiction wrapped in a navy suit and secrets.
Senator Mason Orville.
Dead from a heart attack, they say.
Sure. Let's pretend it was the stress of service and not the cigar in his mouth or the bullet in his chest. Let's pretend he wasn't part of the quiet war being fought inside this city's veins.
