“It’s only his shell. You will see it at the funeral.”

“But I need to. It’s not…” You don’t know what word to grapple for. Fair? No, real. None of it seems real. Then you remember to whom you spoke. Her grief looms so much greater than yours, yet she makes room for your intrusion, to walk you through your feelings. Maybe Selamault finds some solace or distraction in it.

“Come.” Selamault stands abruptly.

“Where?” You slightly angle your head, your large eyes brimming with tears.

“To see him. To say goodbye.”

You pull your hand from hers, preparing to protest, but she presses a long finger to your lips. Lowering your head, you follow her into the next chamber.

Xola’s body lies in state in this quiet space. A tesseract fold created in her chamber, a space within space for Selamault to grieve alone. Outside of their dimensional reality. That’s how grief feels, anyway. This part of grief, to be done alone, that no one can help you with. The release and the acceptance of loss. Selamault draws down the stasis sheath.

Slick with sweat, you rub your fingers along your pant leg before you risk touching his face. Maya’s scans had recorded all measurements. Every detail of him, down to the genomic level, mapped and preserved. You exchange glances with Selamault, who nods. Drained of vitality, his complexion appears so waxy. You stroke his face, ending by running your fingers through the scraggy mess he called a beard, the hair still like thin wires.

You take his hand in yours, overturning it as if in inspection. His long, yellowed nails thick with a black muck of whatever he’d gotten into that day. Examining him, not knowing what you hope to find. Perhaps proof that the body is not really him. That the familiar weight of his hand belongs to some changeling spirit, an ogbanje. That his flesh, so pale with its pink-undertone bloom, could be sloughed off to reveal another. Proof that he isn’t dead.

Selamault rests a heavy hand on your shoulder.

You release a wail from deep within you. An anguished cry loud enough to reach the ears of any remaining orisha that paid attention to any of you. A wave of nausea threatens to overtake you. A rush of light-headedness, the edges of your vision grow dim, as the realization washes over you.

Xola is gone.