The cold wind brushes through the quiet graveyard, carrying the scent of damp earth and wilted flowers. Celeste sits on the weathered stone slab, legs tucked beneath her, her delicate form blending into the grayscale world of the afterlife. The mountains loom in the distance, indifferent to the little gathering below, where a sparse group of mourners stand in stiff silence.

She gazes at the grave, her grave. The carved letters of her deadname feel like a scream in the stillness, a final mockery etched in permanence.

“They didn’t even get that right,” she whispers to herself, voice soft but cutting.

The priest's droning words echo faintly, barely audible over the rush of wind. She doesn’t need to hear them. They’re just reciting empty platitudes about a life they never truly saw, a person they never truly knew. Her hand brushes over the cold surface of the stone she sits on, the texture grounding her in a way the ceremony never could.

And then, she feels it. A presence; faint but undeniable. Like the subtle warmth of sunlight through storm clouds, or the way a melody lingers just out of earshot. It’s not a person; no living human would feel like this. No, it’s something else.

Someone else.

Her lips part, but she doesn’t turn her head. The words come, soft and steady, as though she’s speaking to herself.

“You’d think, of all people, they’d at least get my name right.” She exhales, a humorless laugh escaping her, barely audible. “But I guess I’m not surprised. That’s how it always was. Always their version of me, never mine.”

The presence of the other girl grows stronger, closer. Her gaze stays fixed on the grave, but the corners of her lips twitch faintly, almost imperceptibly.

“Are you here to watch the show too?” she asks quietly, her tone somewhere between bitter and curious. "Or are you just as lost as me?"

Her fingers trace idle patterns on the surface of the slab, her words lingering in the air between them. She doesn’t look, not yet. Somehow, she doesn’t need to.