The first Sunday after the funeral, the bells of St. Mark's Episcopal Church rang as they always had.

And Joanna arrived as she always had.

At least, that was what she believed.

The light pink and red tartan skirt fell straight and proper below the knee, pressed so sharply it might have come straight from the dry cleaner. The matching blazer sat neatly across her shoulders, the high collar framing her face. A whimsical light pink round hat, trimmed with a modest ribbon, rested at the exact angle Joanna had always favored. White gloves covered her hands; tan pumps clicked gently against the stone steps.

Only a month earlier, those same steps had borne the casket of the woman whose clothes Andrew now wore.

But Andrew was not Andrew anymore.

When Mrs. Patterson turned at the sound of heels and saw him ascending the stairs, her hand flew to her pearls. She opened her mouth to say his name - but he reached her first.

“Good morning, Evelyn,” he said gently.

The voice was softer than Andrew’s had ever been. Not falsetto, not mocking - simply measured. Warm. Familiar.

“I’m afraid I can’t join you and the ladies for lunch today,” he continued, adjusting his gloves with precise, habitual fingers. “I have an appointment at the hairdresser’s. I’ve let the color go far too long.”

Mrs. Patterson blinked. “Andrew...”

He tilted his head slightly, the way Joanna always had when correcting someone.

“It’s Joanna,” he said kindly. “I’ve inherited Mother’s life. It seemed the natural thing. I’m sure you understand.”

Behind Mrs. Patterson, two other women stared openly. One made the sign of the cross without realizing she’d done so.

Andrew - Joanna - did not appear embarrassed or theatrical. There was no smirk, no irony. Only calm certainty.

He moved through the vestibule greeting people by name, recalling details about their ailments, their grandchildren, their gardens. His posture had altered; his shoulders drew inward with reserved grace. His gait shortened into careful, practiced steps. Even his gestures - a soft touch to an elbow, a slight lean when listening - mirrored Joanna’s exactly.

It was not parody.

It was continuation.

During the service, he sat in Joanna’s customary pew, third from the front on the left. He sang the hymns in a light but steady voice. When the congregation knelt, he lowered himself with dignified ease, smoothing his skirt before bowing his head.

No one knew where to look.

Afterward, small clusters formed in uneasy pockets of conversation.

Near the coat rack, Mr. Talbot whispered, “This isn’t healthy.”

“She just lost her husband years ago,” murmured Mrs. Patterson, then corrected herself in confusion. “I mean - he lost his mother. Oh dear Lord.”

“He’s grieving,” said Deacon Miller carefully. “Grief does strange things.”

“Strange?” hissed another parishioner. “He’s wearing her gloves.”

At the church doors, Joanna paused to bid farewell.

“Do give my love to Harold,” she told one woman. “And remind him to take the new medication with food. He forgets.”

The woman nodded automatically.

“And truly,” Joanna added with a gentle smile, “I must run. The roots are simply unacceptable.”

With that, she descended the steps, heels clicking in neat succession, and walked toward Joanna’s car - now legally Andrew’s - parked beneath the maple tree.

No one stopped her.

They watched until she turned the corner.

Only when she was out of sight did the murmuring begin in earnest.

“We have to do something,” Mr. Talbot insisted.

“But what?” Mrs. Patterson replied, wringing her hands. “He isn’t hurting anyone.”

“It’s not right,” someone muttered. “It’s like she’s... possessed him.”

“No,” said Deacon Miller quietly. “It’s grief. Profound grief.”

“Should we call someone?” another asked. “A doctor? A counselor?”

“He won’t listen,” Mrs. Patterson said. “I tried last week. He said Joanna doesn’t require therapy.”

The group fell silent.

Inside the church, the organist practiced a soft hymn, the notes drifting faintly through the open doors.

Outside, Joanna’s car engine started.

“She believes it,” one woman whispered. “That’s what frightens me. She truly believes it.”

Deacon Miller exhaled slowly. “We give it time. We keep watch. And we pray.”

“But if it gets worse?” Mr. Talbot pressed.

The engine faded into the distance.

No one had an answer.