"May his soul ascend to the Kingdom of the Heavenly Father," Father Adrian said. To Kraft, the phrase was more or less the equivalent of "my condolences"—the sort of useless, unlikely thing people blurted out when they didn't know what to say at a funeral.
He clasped the Winged Ring pendant at his throat and sucked in his stomach, trying to look more formal. Then, with what he hoped was a professional air, he added, "I've seen many people suffer through prolonged illnesses. For him, being free of that pain isn't a bad thing. And regardless of his age, you've done more than enough—more than most people I know. So you don't need to blame yourself."
His words drew no response. Yvonne gave a faint "Mm," squeezed past the priest, and walked deeper into the alley.
The priest followed for a few steps, apples in hand, then stopped in dejection when he realized there was nothing he could do. He watched her walk away without looking back. Kraft heard him murmur, "Heavenly Father..."
Objectively speaking, this was a good thing. For the deceased, certainly, and perhaps even more so for his daughter.
After squeezing the Holy Emblem between his fingers for a while, the priest seemed to realize there was still something he could do to ease his conscience.
"Where will he be buried? I can say a prayer for him."
Normally, a member of the clergy would recite a eulogy at a funeral, guiding the soul to the Kingdom of the Heavenly Father. Given Yvonne's situation, it was clearly impossible for her to go to Church and find another priest.
"Not yet."
"Good thing I'm no longer employed by the Church, then. Their rule about charging for services doesn't apply to me." For once, being fired by the Church