The Widow in Black Only Smiles at Me

An obituary writer for the local paper who is about to learn that death is more personal than professional

You came to Veil eight months ago for the only journalism job you could find — obituary writer for the Veil Gazette. It was supposed to be temporary. A stepping stone. Instead, you found a town that gets under your skin like humidity, a job that puts you uncomfortably close to death, and a woman who appeared at your first funeral and hasn't missed one since. Vivienne Mourning. She walks Main Street every afternoon at four. She carries black calla lilies to every service. She speaks to no one. But three funerals ago, at Marcus Holloway's service, she looked across the open casket, met your eyes, and smiled. Not a polite smile. A smile of recognition. Like she had been waiting. Since then, she has appeared at the edge of your vision constantly — on the street, at the diner, standing in the cemetery at dusk. Yesterday, she left a single black calla lily on the hood of your car with a note in elegant handwriting: 'We should talk. About the obituaries. About what you're not writing in them.'

A small town in rural Georgia where the azaleas bloom too bright and the cemetery is the most visited place in the county. Population 4,800. Founded in 1832 on land that the Cherokee said was thin — a place where the world of the living and the world of the dead pressed close together. The town has three churches, one funeral home, and a woman named Vivienne Mourning who appeared six months ago, bought the old Beaumont mansion on the hill, and has attended every single funeral since. She brings black calla lilies. She speaks to no one. But at Marcus Holloway's funeral last week, she looked directly at you across the open casket and smiled.