The Church, in its mercy, allows for a funeral Mass for Stephen.

Souls fall into hell like leaves at the approach of winter, but one can never be certain of the fate of a particular soul. Even a suicide might be given the opportunity for repentance in his last moments; and only God can know the true capacity of a tormented mind to fully and freely consent to mortal sin.

   Sacrificium Deo spiritus contribulatus;
   cor contritum et humiliatum, Deus, non despicies.

In order to avoid giving scandal, it's a small, private affair. The doors of the church are unlocked, of course, but it's not listed in the parish bulletin, and no one happens to wander in during the half-hour it takes from beginning to end. Stephen's parents are there, and the priest, and two men from the funeral home to carry the casket. Emmelia asks for permission to serve the mass, as a favor, and gets it. There's no one else.

The bell doesn't ring, when they bring him in.

   Oro supplex et acclinis,
   Cor contritum quasi cinis,
   Gere curam mei finis. 

Emmelia doesn't let herself cry, not while she's serving. Stephen's mother cries; there's no music to hide the sound of it in the empty church. There's no incense, either, but Emmelia holds the aspersorium while the priest sprinkles holy water on the box where Stephen's body is.

   Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna, in die illa tremenda
   Quando caeli movendi sunt et terra
   Dum veneris iudicare saeculum per ignem.

The priest blesses the earth, and they put Stephen in the ground facing east, to wait there for the resurrection. Emmelia doesn't cry then, either, as they put dirt on her friend. She's here to serve; to mourn comes later.

   Angelum tuum sanctum députa custódem:
   et quorum quarúmque córpora hic sepeliúntur,
   ánimas eórum ab ómnibus absólve vínculis delictórum.

There's no memorial card to take home and tuck into her missal. It's fine. It's not as if, without the reminder, she'll forget to pray for his soul.

It would have had the wrong name, anyway.

At home, she finds one of his sketches he'd left lying around after a visit, a grotesque sort of self-portrait on the back of an envelope. She pins it up next to her icons, kneels and prays.

   Réquiem æternam dona Z, Dómine,
   Et lux perpétua lúceat ei.
   Requiéscat in pace.

This time, she cries her heart out.