It worries Grace, when the dead go quiet. She puts her head to the ground, pillowed by soft earth, where once she heard the shrieking fear of the funeral pyre — she hears nothing now, and how will she know what they need, if they don’t tell her? And yet (she knows, without words or shouts or screams) the dead need nothing, and their quiet is the quiet of a seed sleeping in the earth, someday to bloom.