As the week wore on, the town meeting loomed larger in my mind.
Everywhere I turned, it seemed people were preparing for it.
Conversations grew more pointed, opinions more pronounced.
At the diner, regulars gathered in clusters, their voices rising and falling in waves of speculation.
“They can’t just let anyone run a funeral,” one man huffed, his fork clattering against his plate.
“It’s not right,” his companion agreed.
I tried to keep my thoughts neutral, my expression blank.
The meeting room was packed when I arrived.
People stood along the walls, their faces a mix of curiosity and apprehension.
Town officials sat at the front, shuffling papers, their expressions unreadable.
The funeral director was there too, a solitary figure amidst the crowd.
The meeting began with formalities, the agenda outlined in dry, bureaucratic language.
But soon the discussion turned to the funeral, the questions echoing those I’d heard in the diner.
“Who decides what’s appropriate?” a voice called from the back.
“What happens when there’s no family?” another asked.
The room buzzed with tension, the air thick with unspoken emotions.
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