The hearse sits in the rain below the window. Black-clad mourners huddle, hunched, whispering memories and condolences in the shadow of the church. They hold their hats against the wind. The trees whip to-and-fro in frantic abandon, ignorant of the somber pace of those in their shadow. Children hold the hands of elders, the boys tug at their neckties while the girls straighten their dresses. They look up from time to time, towards the face of a parent, unsure. He looks down at them, quiet. It proceeds in silence. Tendrils of wind-swept ivy scrape the window pane. He hears nothing else.