A funeral car glided through the narrow, bustling streets of Antananarivo, the soft light of the setting sun casting long, haunting shadows over the city. A small silver cross was affixed to the front of the car, catching the fading light with an almost unholy glint. Behind it, seven sleek, black vehicles followed in a solemn procession, their engines purring softly as if not to disturb the hush that blanketed the scene. The usual city clamor seemed muted, as though Antananarivo itself held its breath for this mournful parade.
In the distance, the sharp staccato of camera shutters pierced the silence, capturing a striking man stepping out of the lead car. His tailored black suit clung perfectly to his lean frame, exuding an air of control, his every motion deliberate, almost choreographed. There was power in his presence, tension in the air around him, as if he carried both sorrow and something darker. Beside him, a young woman with deep brown skin clung to his arm. Her oversized sunglasses obscured her eyes, the dark lenses acting as a shield from the world. To the onlookers, her posture whispered grief, but the veil of indifference around her was as carefully constructed as her designer mourning dress.
Ahead of them, an older woman stood, her hands trembling around a bouquet of pale lilies. The weight of loss bent her figure, though she kept her posture upright, her grief spilling through the cracks of her composure. Her face, shadowed by a black hat with cascading lace, tilted upward toward the open grave, a space adorned with fresh blooms of red, white, and gold. Their vivid beauty clashed violently with the somber mood, a cruel reminder of life in the presence of death.
Click.
The handsome man stepped forward, his every movement exuding authority, though his hand was not his own. The woman by his side tightened her grip, her slender fingers digging into his like steel claws. Her touch whispered a silent message—a warning cloaked in affection.
Click.
The older woman turned slightly, her sharp eyes briefly scanning the couple. There was something unsettling in her gaze, a suspicion laced with unspoken words. Without a word, she resumed her measured steps, the echo of her heels on stone as rhythmic as a metronome.
Click.
The coffin emerged from the lead car, its gleaming white surface startling against the surrounding darkness. Fragile in its purity, it was carried by a line of young boys whose solemn faces bore a ghostly pallor. They moved with reverence, their small steps hesitant, as if the weight of the dead threatened to crush them. A sea of mourners trailed behind, clad in black, their heads bowed in synchronized grief. Yet, amidst the hundreds, the cameras remained fixated on three figures—the man, the woman, and the matriarch—capturing every furtive glance, every lingering gesture.
That very photograph would later emblazon the front page of the newspaper now clenched in Dragnelle's trembling hand. "Myhra Rakoto, Daughter of the Rakoto Shipping Empire, Dead at 30 Years Old," the headline screamed in bold letters. But Dragnelle barely noticed.
Her head bowed low, her fingers pressed firmly against her temples, as though she could crush the pain radiating through her skull. The veins on her dark skin stood out like tributaries of anguish, her jaw tight with a seething tension that threatened to crack her carefully crafted mask. In her free hand, a small pill bottle rattled with the tremor of her grip, its sound swallowed by the dull roar of the plane's engines.