Lunar did not cry at the funeral.
Not because she was being brave.
Not because she was holding it in.
She simply… couldn't.
Something inside her felt locked, frozen, as if the part of her that knew how to cry had been buried with her mother long before the coffin touched the ground.
She stood among the murmuring villagers, small and rigid, hands clasped in front of her the way someone had gently positioned them. Faces surrounded her—somber, pitying, heavy with something she could not quite grasp—but they blurred together into indistinct shapes, drifting at the edges of her vision like figures seen through fogged glass. She did not look at them, nor did she try to listen.
It looked too large for the woman she remembered, too real, too final. There was a stillness to it that felt wrong, an absence where there should have been warmth, breath, presence. The blanket folded neatly on top—her mother's favorite, the one they used to share on stormy days when thunder rolled outside and the world felt small and safe—sitting there without purpose, draped over nothing but emptiness. It looked wrong in a way Lunar could not put into words, wrong enough that she kept staring at it as if, given enough time, it might shift, lift, or reveal that everything had been some kind of mistake.
But it did not move, and neither did she.
At some point, a hand came to rest on her shoulder, gentle and warm, careful in the way it touched her, as though whoever it belonged to feared she might break under the slightest pressure. Lunar did not turn to see who it was. She could not bring herself to care. The person behind that touch—whether an elder, a neighbor, or even the goddesses themselves—was nothing more than another blurred presence in a world that had lost its color. Voices drifted around her, muffled and indistinct, as if she were submerged beneath water.
Only her mother had ever felt clear, and now even that clarity was beginning to slip.
Before the coffin had been closed, they had allowed Lunar to stand beside her, though she barely remembered walking there. The memory did not feel like something she had experienced step by step, but rather like an image that had been pressed directly into her mind, vivid and burning.
Her mother lay on a bed of white cloth, dressed in her favorite deep-grey robes. the fabric draping over her form in a way that almost resembled rest rather than death. For a fleeting moment, if Lunar did not look too closely, it could have seemed as though she had simply fallen asleep after a long day. Her silver hair had been brushed smooth across the pillow, shining faintly under the lantern light, but the shine felt duller than it used to be, missing the warmth that sunlight once gave it.
Her face was calm—too calm that it felt entirely unfamiliar. Death had softened her features into something serene, something distant, something that no longer belonged to the woman Lunar knew. The faint color that once lived in her lips had been wiped away, like someone had repainted her in muted shades of ash instead. Even her skin carried that same quiet pallor, stripped of the life that had once made it feel real beneath Lunar's touch.
Those hands. Hands that had always been warm, always moving, always there to guide, to comfort, to hold, now looked delicate and unmoving, like porcelain placed too carefully in a display, something that might crack if touched for too long. Lunar had stared at them, at the stillness in the fingers that had once moved so naturally, and waited.
She waited for her mother's chest to rise, for her fingers to twitch, for any small sign that this was not what it seemed.
But nothing came.
And even knowing that, even understanding on some distant level that it would not change, Lunar still found herself wanting to see her mother's face one more time, as if looking again might somehow bring back what had already been taken. She knew what she would see—that same pale body, that same coldness—and yet the need to confirm it persisted.
A pair of adults guided her forward once more, their hands light but firm, steering her closer to the coffin as though she might otherwise drift away from the moment entirely. "Lunar… sweetheart… go say your goodbye."
The word felt unfamiliar.
Goodbye did not settle into her understanding the way it seemed to for everyone else. It did not carry meaning or finality. It simply passed through her, ungrasped, like rain slipping through open fingers.
She stepped forward, not because she chose to, but because she was moved. The world around her seemed to narrow with each step until there was nothing left but the dark wood of the coffin, its polished surface reflecting a faint, distorted image of her small figure standing before it.
For a moment, she simply stood there, staring at her own reflection, begging for it to belong to someone else.
She reached out, her tiny fingers trembling as they brushed against the polished surface of the coffin, and the moment her skin made contact, the sensation struck her with a quiet, crushing clarity.
It was cold.
Not just the absence of warmth, but the same hollow, lifeless cold she had felt when she touched her mother's hand, a cold that did not belong to sleep or rest, but to something final, something that could not be undone. The memory of it lingered in her fingertips, seeping inward, as though the chill had found its way beneath her skin and rest somewhere deep within her chest.
Her voice, when it came, was barely more than a breath. "…Momma…"
The word wavered as it left her lips, fragile and uncertain, as though it no longer knew where it was meant to go, or whether it would ever be answered again. Her breath trembled, catching faintly in her throat before she forced the rest of her words out, each one quieter than the last.
"…I'll… I'll catch up… one day…"
She did not know what she meant by it, nor where that path would lead, but the promise slipped out all the same.
Then the coffin began to lower.
Lunar stood there and watched as the coffin descended, inch by inch, until the dark wood that had filled her vision began to disappear beneath the earth, and with each passing moment, something inside her seemed to give way alongside it. It was not sudden, not a clean break, but a slow collapse, like loose soil crumbling under unseen pressure. The world she had known—the warmth of her mother's hands, the softness of her voice, the steady rhythm of footsteps that had always been just beside her—felt as though it was being lowered into the ground as well, sealed away beneath layers of silence too deep for her to ever reach again.
By the time the ropes were pulled free, her breathing had grown thin and uneven, as though each inhale had to search for something that was no longer there.
By the time the first shovel of dirt struck the coffin below, she felt nothing at all. The sound echoed faintly, dull and distant, but it did not stir anything within her. It simply existed, another noise among many, fading into the same emptiness that had swallowed everything else.
When it was over, the crowd began to disperse, drifting away in small clusters, the moment had already passed for them, life quietly resuming its course just beyond the edges of death. Voices rose and fell in low murmurs—condolences, sympathies, blessings offered with careful sincerity—but they reached Lunar only as distant vibrations, stripped of meaning before they could fully form. Footsteps brushed against the earth, fabric shifted in the breeze, and the soft sound of conversation lingered briefly before dissolving into nothing.
None of it felt real, none of it felt right, and none of it was her mother.
So none of it mattered.
Lunar remained where she was.
She sank to her knees before the fresh mound of earth, the cold seeping through her clothes. Her hair fell in pale-grey wisps over her eyes, sticking to her cheeks where the wind brushed past her, but she made no effort to move them aside. They clung there, half-obscuring her vision, though it made little difference. The world beyond them was already distant, already blurred.
The stone was pale and newly set, its surface still carrying the faint scent of dust and freshly worked material, as it had only just been carved and placed there moments ago. There was something unsettling about how new it looked, how untouched and clean it was.
She forced her trembling hands forward, until her fingertips met the surface of the stone. The cold that greeted her there was even harsher than before, like it was carved from winter itself.
Her fingers dragged lightly across the engraving, tracing each letter with unbearable care, the hardness of the stone pressed back into her skin with an indifference that made her stomach twist.
Guair Light.
Loving Mother.
Cherished by All.
May the Three Goddesses Guide Her Run to the Afterlife.
Her lips parted as a ragged breath escaped her, yet no sound followed it. There was no wail, no whisper, not even the faintest echo of a broken "Momma" slipping past her lips, only silence stretching endlessly in its place as she stared ahead, wide-eyed and hollow.
She kept looking at the stone as though sheer persistence might change it, as though if she stared long enough the cold surface might begin to warm beneath her gaze, as though if she remained quiet and patient enough the earth beneath it might shift and stir, returning what had been taken from her. Somewhere in that fragile, unspoken hope was the belief that if she stayed perfectly still—if she did not move, did not breathe too loudly, did not disturb the moment—then perhaps the world would correct itself and fall back into the shape she remembered, into the version where her mother still stood beside her, warm and alive and real.
But nothing moved.
Nothing changed.
Nothing warmed.
The only thing that answered her was the wind, curling softly around her small frame as it passed, brushing against her clothes and her hair in a hollow imitation of an embrace, as though it were trying, and failing, to fill the space her mother had once occupied so effortlessly. It wrapped around her and slipped away just as easily, leaving behind nothing but the same quiet emptiness that had settled into her chest.
And still, Lunar remained there, empty and frozen, unable to comprehend the finality of what had happened, a child waiting patiently for a warmth she did not yet want to understand would never return.
Then, as if something in the world had taken notice of that quiet, unmoving despair, an unfamiliar warmth slowly settled around her shoulders.
It came gently, almost hesitantly, as though unsure whether it would be accepted, and though it lacked the familiar comfort she longed for, it was unmistakably real. It was not her mother's warmth—did not carry the sun-soaked softness that smelled faintly of carrot bread, fresh grass, and the lingering graphite scent of old sketchbooks—but it was warmth nonetheless, steady and living in a way that made her breath hitch without her permission.
For a brief moment, Lunar wondered if she had imagined it.
Her thoughts had been drifting all day, slipping between memory and reality until the two had begun to blur together, until she could no longer tell whether what she felt belonged to the present or to something already gone. Perhaps this, too, was just another fragment of the past reaching for her, something her mind had created to fill the unbearable quiet.
But then something brushed lightly against her cheek.
It was not the rough texture of fabric, nor the cool, impersonal touch of a stranger's hand, but something softer—long strands of hair gliding across her skin with a smoothness that felt almost like silk. The sensation lingered just long enough to feel real, just long enough to anchor her to the moment, and with it came a faint scent, delicate and unfamiliar, carrying traces of sea wind intertwined with crushed lavender.
The combination grounded her in a way nothing else had since the funeral began.
Lunar blinked, her vision shifting slightly, and at the blurred edges of her sight, color began to emerge where there had only been dull shapes before. A streak of vivid, almost glowing blue slipped into view, followed by another, the strands falling like loose ribbons across her line of sight as they swayed gently with the movement of the person behind her.
The arms around her tightened just a little, careful and uncertain, trembling faintly as though they were trying not to apply too much pressure, as though the person holding her feared that even the slightest misstep might cause her to break apart completely. It felt fragile, almost desperate in its gentleness, like someone attempting to piece together a shattered vase with bare hands, fully aware that they might only end up causing more damage.
Above her, a voice finally broke through the quiet. "Lunar Light…?"
The sound of it was thin, unsteady, trembling with a kind of grief so raw it seemed barely able to hold itself together, as though the words themselves were on the verge of collapsing under their own weight. It was a voice that knew her name, that spoke it with strange familiarity, yet Lunar did not respond. Her throat shifted slightly, as though trying to form an answer, but whatever voice she had was locked somewhere deep inside her, unreachable.
The arms around her drew her closer, steady despite their trembling, and she felt the stranger gently lower her face into the tangled strands of her pale hair, trying to shield her from the world or perhaps from herself. A soft, uneven breath escaped the woman, heavy with emotion, carrying a quiet ache that Lunar could not yet understand, could not yet name.
"Oh… child," the woman whispered, her voice cracking like thin ice under pressure, each word fragile and strained. "You look just like her…"
Lunar blinked once, slowly, as even that small motion had to pass through something thick and heavy before it could reach her. Her mind felt muffled, wrapped in a dense fog that dulled everything around her, blurring thoughts before they could fully form and smothering any attempt to push through it. She did not pull away from the arms around her, but neither did she lean into them, remaining suspended somewhere in between, held by a warmth she did not understand and could not quite accept—a warmth that was real, yet not the one she longed for.
The woman shifted slightly, easing back just enough for Lunar's unfocused vision to begin catching fragments of her face. Color, faint and uncertain, started to return to the world in thin, hesitant strokes, like paint slowly bleeding into an otherwise empty canvas. Through the haze, Lunar could make out the figure of a tall uma musume kneeling beside her, dressed in dark tones that blended almost seamlessly with her mid-length hair. The strands were mostly black, but beneath the surface, flashes of vivid electric blue shimmered through, catching what little light remained and standing out in quiet contrast.
Tears had carved visible paths down the woman's cheeks, their faint shine betraying how recently they had fallen, yet despite them, she tried—truly tried—to keep her expression from crumbling. Her brows were softened with care, her lips drawn into something gentle and restrained, as though she feared that even the slightest misstep, even a single wrong look, might cause the fragile child before her to shatter completely.
"Oh, dear…" she murmured, her voice low and careful as her hand rose to brush against Lunar's cheek, the touch light and deliberate. "You're trembling. Come here, sweetheart… you shouldn't be alone right now."
Lunar did not respond.
Her gaze remained distant, unfocused, drifting somewhere beyond the woman's shoulder as though her awareness had slipped through the cracks of the present moment and could no longer find its way back. The words reached her, but they did not settle, did not anchor themselves in anything she could understand or feel.
The woman swallowed, her throat tightening visibly as she steadied herself, drawing in a slow, uneven breath as if gathering the strength to continue. "I suppose I should… introduce myself," she said, her voice thin but controlled, carefully measured so it would not break. "My name is Black Caviar."
The name carried no meaning for Lunar.
It passed through her as easily as air through an open window, leaving no trace behind, no recognition, no connection. Her expression did not change, her eyes remained blank, and the world around her stayed muted and distant, as though it existed behind a veil she could not lift. Even the warmth surrounding her, though tangible, felt like a faint and fragile echo of something far greater that she had already lost.
Still, the woman continued, her voice softening further, shaped by a tenderness that bordered on pain. "I am your mother's friend," she explained, each word spoken with care, as though she were placing them gently between them rather than forcing them forward. "We grew up together… trained together… dreamed together."
Her breath faltered, catching briefly as emotion threatened to overtake her, and she swallowed again before pressing on. "She trusted me with something precious," she added, her voice dipping into something quieter, something more personal. "With you."
At that, Lunar's head tilted ever so slightly, the movement so faint it might have gone unnoticed by anyone less attentive. Her eyes flickered—not with understanding, not with recognition, but with the barest trace of something questioning, something uncertain stirring beneath the emptiness.
Black Caviar's hand rose once more, gently cupping Lunar's cheek, her thumb brushing lightly against the skin as it caught a tear that Lunar herself had not even realized had fallen. "Guair… asked me to watch over you," she said, her voice cracking softly at the name, the grief there impossible to fully hide. "She told me, 'If anything happens to her…'"
The sentence trailed off, unfinished, as the wind swept through the space between them, carrying with it the raw scent of freshly turned soil mixed with the fading sweetness of incense that still lingered from the ceremony.
For a moment, Black Caviar closed her eyes, drawing in a slow, steadying breath as she forced her grief back, shaping it into something gentler, something strong enough to offer rather than burden. When she opened them again, there was still sorrow there, but it had been tempered into something quieter, something more resolute.
"I'm here now, Lunar," she whispered, her voice softer, steadier, filled with a quiet promise that did not demand to be believed. "I promise… you won't be alone."
Her arms tightened slightly around the child, not in an attempt to replace what had been lost, not in any illusion that she could fill that space, but simply to offer what she could—a new warmth, fragile and imperfect, yet undeniably real.
For the first time since that morning, Lunar saw something, and though the fog did not lift entirely, it thinned by the smallest margin, just enough for something to shift within her perception.
She did not understand, she did not believe. But somewhere, faint and distant, she recognized that someone was holding her.
And she did not push that warmth away.