A week and a half later, Sunil’s remains are transported from Montréal to Ottawa. In the meantime, Kavita met with a funeral director who guided her through the business of death with the gentle care of a grief counsellor. While he didn’t know the circumstances of Sunil’s death, he knew it was unusual enough to involve the police and coroner’s office one province over, and was courteous enough not to pressure Kavita into elaborating any further. Most importantly, he knew how to handle bodies that had been found several days after the spirit had passed on. When Kavita asked if they could see Sunil’s body once he was returned, the portly man told her, “In cases like these, the coffin is nailed shut.” Until then, it hadn’t occurred to Kavita how decomposed Sunil’s body would have been by then. She had been so focused on getting her brother back, she hadn’t stopped to consider that what she got back wouldn’t resemble any brother she had ever known. For a few moments, as she sat stunned in the funeral director’s office, she wondered what Sunil might look like now, then pushed the gruesome image out of her mind. Kavita decided then she wanted to remember Sunil as he was, full and unblemished. That was the image she would project into the nailed coffin.

“The coroner’s office sent a bag of his clothes,” the funeral director continued, shaking his head, “but I don’t think you’ll be able to save them. Perhaps the shoes?” The shoes. Which ones had he been wearing that day? The Nikes. His favourite pair of sneakers. The ones he used on their night runs. The ones that made no sound as he snuck out the door. No, she instructed, dispose it all.

Next, he handed her a large envelope heavy with death certificates. According to the thick-bond, official-looking document, her brother was dead. Because everything about his dying had happened beyond her view, and compounded by the fact she would never see his body, the proclamation seemed unreal. If Sunil had died an old man—as he was supposed to have died—there would have been a body for her to cleanse and honour according to the last rites. But there was no chance of that happening now.

On the certificate, no cause of death was listed, yet. The police had informed her the backlog for toxicology reports was about a year, if not more. If Sunil had died an old man—as he was supposed to have died—there would have been a cause of death listed on the certificate now. Something like, pneumonia or cardiac arrest or achingly-beautiful old age. Something natural.

There was no obituary in the paper. No memorial Facebook page. No announcement on the funeral home website with a section for family and friends to write messages of condolence. Their grief was silence, overwritten with fiction.