A simple mass in the church, a homily delivered by a priest who was always kind to all, be they poor and downtrodden or affluent and privileged. We are all God’s children, saints and sinners alike. We are the only mourners in attendance. That was part of the deal. Too much attention being drawn to an event of this nature would invite far too many questions. Though a part of me rails at the injustice—this is a life that should be celebrated above all others—another part of me is shamefully grateful. I never wanted my mourning to be public. My grief is mine. These sorrows are ours. This hardship is not one I ever wanted to perform for the benefit of others.

But even then, I am not alone.

Ana’s presence is a subtle, comforting weight at my side. Every touch still hurts, but I relish this pain. Every bruise, every scar, every still-angry wound is a reminder that I am alive. That we are alive. Despite the best efforts of evil men, we survived. The gunpowder went up in a conflagration of holy fire, as if the angels above had finally seen fit to lay waste to the corruption that had taken root in our city. Every time I close my eyes, I see it. The spark of gunpowder igniting. The searing flash of light as it went up so quickly my brain couldn’t quite follow what was happening until it was too late. The ceiling collapsing inward. Thankfully, only a part of it. But in the seconds before I caught sight of Ana’s shock of red hair among the rubble, before I knew she was okay, that she was alive, I had a revelation. A life without her is not a life worth living. She is more than my friend. She is a piece of my soul, lost for so long, until God saw fit to bring her back to me. And I think that is what I am to her. I hope that is what I am to her.