The fatal wound was indistinguishable from one caused by a blade. If you were none the wiser, you could never tell.

Except for me, I know. I harbour that secret as if I were the one with my fist clenched over the hilt.

Yet it wasn’t a blade that ended their breath. It was something more mundane than that.

A simple white shoelace, strung over the door and tied snug around the knob. The other end, cinched tight around their own throat.

The mortician hid it well; the deep red line was hardly visible under the makeup.

My eyes burned as I examined them, their black jumpsuit too stark against the coffin’s white lining.

Rest easy, friend.