Emma Shetler lifted her gaze to meet Moriah Miller’s eyes. Moriah had been a good friend to her over the past year, and Emma had never noticed until now how blue her eyes were. Blue like the summer sky, and at this moment, full of compassion. Emma tried to swallow down the thorn of grief that blocked her throat. “I appreciate you and your familye coming by this afternoon.” “Your mammi was a very special fraa.” Moriah laid a hand on Emma’s shoulder. The warmth of the gentle touch seeped through the thin fabric of Emma’s black dress. The color of mourning. Of death. Despite Moriah’s comfort, that’s what Emma felt inside. Dead. She glanced around the living room. As expected, most members of the church district were here to pay their respects and show their support. Dark dresses and white kapps for the women, black pants and hats for the men—all of them in mourning clothes.
