Loss, for Henry, only ever transmogrifies itself into anger. The sentimentality of these sort of send-offs, quiet and contemplative, do not quite reach at his core they way it intends to, but he understands the purpose. The way grief attempts to resolve itself through ritual—or at least that’s what plenty try to tell themselves, what they hope for—is not unheard of.

Truth be told, with such a middling investment in tonight, it’s a wonder he’s here at all. But Henry Creel is oft driven by his curiosity, and when most of those attending have already left, when the music wanes into something soft and dying, this is when he draws closer. Examining the candlelight glow flickering at a distance.

Seems like he’s not the only one. He doesn’t know this man — but intrude on this moment of quietude, he does, anyway.

“It’s sad, isn’t it?” he says, coming to stand beside him, hands clasping behind his back.