Page 42 of Holding Onto You (Burnt Ashes #2)

Epilogue

Trey

I t’s ironic… cremation.

It’s what he would’ve wanted. I know it in my bones.

Mac’s inconsolable. I get it. Grief does that.

Twists up inside you until the whole world tilts sideways. But in time… with space… she’ll be okay. She’s the strongest person I know.

Still, burying what’s left feels like overkill.

But they wanted to honor him.

Watching the body being lowered into the ground makes you think.

About life.

About death.

About how damn fragile everything is.

Life is too fucking short.

Here one second. Gone the next.

The cold bite of Fall chews through my jacket, nipping at my fingertips. The wind shivers the trees above, shaking loose gold and crimson leaves like the sky’s weeping. They drift down slow, spinning like nature’s confetti for a celebration no one asked for.

“We stand here today to marvel not at how he died, but how he lived…” The priest’s voice is low and reverent, like it’s trying not to wake the dead.

I stop listening. I’m too busy watching the coffin descend—a shoebox, duct-taped and scuffed, cradling what’s left of one very unlucky parrot.

Sir Stanley Squawkington the Third.

Death and rebirth. The circle of life. One minute you’re here, feathers gleaming, shouting obscenities or weirdly specific sexual phrases that your drunk owner recorded once during a hangover.

The next… boom. Gone.

We humans act like we’re tough, untouchable. But we’re just walking meat sacks with feelings. It takes one second—one fall, one accident, one stupid moment—and lights out. Curtain closed.

The silence is thick.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Logan’s voice slices clean through the moment like a blade.

I turn.

He’s parked in a wheelchair under the birch tree, blanket over his legs, bandages peeking from under his sleeves. Mac stands beside him, arms crossed, eyes red from crying, mouth twitching like she’s trying not to laugh.

I toss her a wink. She rolls her eyes.

“Well, if it isn’t my knight in flannel armor,” I say, grinning. “This is about our dearly departed friend, Sir Stanley Squawkington the third.”

“I thought you called him Screechy McScreecherson?” Logan asks, brows lifting.

I blink.

“Shit, I did…” I clear my throat. Shifting my stance. “No matter. Screechy McScreecherson was a noble soul. A loyal companion. Full of iron, copper, and unresolved trauma. Gone too soon. His shrieks will haunt our dreams forever.”

The priest—who’s getting paid by the hour, and clearly questioning his life’s choices, let’s out the world’s softest sigh.

From the porch, the morning sun creeps across the yard, warming my back. Mac wheels Logan toward the house. The quiet between us settling like dust.

“Why is he in the band again?” Logan mutters to her as they disappear through the door... She leans down, whispers something just for him, and kisses his cheek.

Watching Logan and Mac figure their shit out almost makes me believe in love again…y’know, until I end up bound and gagged in a church basement. But hey—that’s a story for another day.

To be continued…