Beautiful Funeral Novels & Stories

Then he suddenly spoke again, "Iris, we've been together since childhood. I can count as your brother. Let me walk you down the aisle." This was Adrian's final plea. As we walked down the aisle, I felt dazed as my memories drifted back to the year my mother died. At her funeral, I slipped away while no one was paying attention and ran to her coffin. The coffin was large and high. I wanted to climb up to see my mother one last time, but my legs were short. I could not climb up and could only sit on the floor, crying in frustration. Suddenly, someone tapped my forehead. "Why are you crying?"

Lucian's POV. I stand just behind Talon, the damp scent of freshly turned soil clinging to the air. The funeral is quiet, somber. Every rustle of wind through the trees feels too loud, too alive. I watch as they lower the small, hand-carved coffin into the earth; Morgana’s quiet sobs the only sound that matters. And then —

We both got dressed in black and took his BMW to the funeral. The season was turning to winter. The weather outside was gloomy. The bare trees, gray sky and cold wind felt appropriate for this dreadful day. At the funeral, I still couldn’t accept Lisa’s death. I cried as her coffin was lowered into the dark, cold soil. Mother earth would take care of her now, and turn her remnants into new life one day.

On the day of my mother's funeral, I sat outside the chapel, crying so hard I could barely stand. Three days earlier, my father had told me she'd died in a car accident. He said her body was so badly damaged that I shouldn't see it. I wouldn't be able to handle it. I believed him. I put on a black dress and sat beside her casket all night. Ten minutes before the cremation, my phone buzzed. A notification popped up for a hotel livestream. I opened it and froze. My mother was on the screen in an evening gown, smiling as my younger sister, Nina Whitmore, handed her a glass of champagne. My father sat beside her, his eyes red. "From now on, Nina doesn't have to live in Evelyn's shadow or suffer

Tracy’s POV The funeral home smelled like lilies and furniture polish, a combination that would probably haunt me for the rest of my life. I sat in the front row between my uncle Marcus and my cousin Jennifer, staring at two closed caskets covered in white roses. Someone had told me white roses symbolized reverence and purity. I didn’t care what they symbolized. They just looked cold. “Beautiful service,” someone murmured behind me. I’d heard that phrase approximately forty times in the last two hours. Beautiful service. As if there was anything beautiful about burying both your parents at once.

It was a shared space of profound, unspeakable sorrow. He finally spoke, his voice a low, gentle murmur. “The funeral… was a beautiful service.” Isabelle just nodded, her eyes still filled with a silent, profound sorrow. “She would have liked it,” she whispered, the words a raw, broken sound. “It was… simple. Quiet. Like her.”

My father's funeral was stark and simple, just as he had wanted. I moved through the motions and greeted the attendees like a robot, hoping the bustle would dull the ache in my chest. But on this day of all days, Blake Cole, the man who was supposed to be my partner, never showed up. My dad, Alex Holmes, had spent his final years fretting over my happiness. Now I could handle the rest, and he could rest in peace. The attendees whispered to each other, looking at me with pity.

Rafael said, finally looking up from his newspaper. I didn't argue. "I’m worried about Fiorella." "She's alone now," I said. Rafael drank his coffee slowly before setting the cup down. "Not entirely." I caught his gaze, understanding exactly what he was insinuating. No, she wasn't entirely on her own. But it would take a terrible lot to persuade her otherwise. —————— The funeral ceremony was held at one of the D'Angelo estates, a stunning, historic mansion with lavish gardens and brooding stone archways. The moment we got there, the mood was filled with grief, the muted whispers of mourners blending with the somber atmosphere.

Funeral's next week. Yeah—no body, just the funeral. The replies came in fast: [You didn't even find her body. How can you hold a funeral?] [Jensen Johnston, are you seriously losing it? What if she's not dead?] [If Nancy shows up and sees her own funeral, she's gonna flip. You sure you wanna piss her off like that?]

The fear has been replaced by something else, something I do not have a word for, something that feels like the moment before a door opens and you do not know what is on the other side but you know you are going to walk through it anyway. Two corridors away, in the chapel vault, the candle gutters out. The draft from the open vault door reaches the flame, and the flame bends once, twice, and then it is gone, and the chapel is dark, and the ledger sits in its hidden cavity beneath the granite altar stone, and the pages are still open to the authorization code that will burn the Armenise syndicate to the ground.