My coworker took her own life. Her coworkers came to her aid.

*Notice of Bereavement* was the simple headline of the email that arrived on a Monday morning. This one stuck out in our business world, where everything was timed and filled with emails. Before I even clicked to open it, a sense of dread and weight descended upon me.

It has to do with Rachel.

Even as I read her name, I thought it was someone else, someone from another planet, yet it was Rachel from the marketing team on the third floor. Rachel, who always brought homemade lunches and had the workstation by the window, filled the break room with aromas that took you back to a time before these glass walls.

She had committed suicide.

Naturally, the email didn't say it that way. "Rachel has passed away suddenly," it stated. However, we were aware. Before the coffee makers had even completed brewing, the rumors began to circulate. According to rumors, she was discovered in her residence. A glass of water, some pills, and a note that no one had yet seen. Perhaps nobody would.

All day long, people pretended to be working while spoke in low tones. "She seemed fine," or "I just saw her last week," were the standard statements of amazement. What, though, did anyone actually know? I wasn't even positive that I could recall our last conversation.

We received notice of a memorial ceremony in our inboxes around midday. It was scheduled to take place at a little chapel near the office on Friday. The email's statement that "all are welcome to attend" gave something that ought to have felt more intimate a formal tone.

It was a small, movie-like chapel, a small wooden building with groaning flooring and stained glass windows that threw patterns of color upon the pews. There was a slight scent of dust and ancient books.

I came early, mostly because I felt bad. I had no idea why I felt that way. Perhaps as a result of realizing how little I knew Rachel and how effortlessly she had faded into the background of my life after her death. For three years, we worked in the same building and occasionally chatted in the break room or on the elevator. I couldn't claim to know her, though.

Behind me, several office workers slipped in. As a sea of individuals who had only previously seen one another in suits and skirts, we were all dressed in melancholy tones of grey and black and were now united by this common tragedy. Seeing coworkers you only know via deadlines and PowerPoint presentations coming together in a place like this was weird. There was a sense of uneasiness, as if we were unsure of how to act. Shall we give each other a hug? Send your condolences? Or should we just take our seats and nod?

Paul and Jenny, two more members of the marketing team, were seated between me. Jenny's face showed no emotion, but her eyes had a red rim, as though she had been sobbing. Paul clasped his hands in his lap and gazed blankly ahead. If there was such a thing, he was Rachel's best buddy at work. I wanted to know his thoughts. Did he think there was something he could have done? Or did he share our sense of confusion?

Soft organ music that seemed to be intended to lull you into a mood of sorrow opened the ceremony. As usual, the priest spoke about life and death, emphasizing the need of cherishing our time here and paying respect to those who have passed away too soon. It didn't feel right, though. Not for Rachel.

Following the priest's remarks, anyone wishing to share a memory or an idea about her was welcome to do so. Nobody made a move. The uncomfortably long stillness was followed by a sudden, acute feeling of remorse. I was at a loss for words. I didn't know enough to share a moment or a narrative. Her reserved demeanor during meetings and the way she cocked her head when paying close attention were the only hazy memories I received. However, those weren't recollections. They were merely distant observations.

Paul got to his feet at last.

Grasping the podium's edge with both hands as though it were the only thing supporting him, he went slowly to the front. When he spoke, his voice was thin and tremulous.

He began, his voice wavering a little on the final word, "Rachel was...quiet." However, she was nice. and intelligent. She was also more dedicated to her career than most people knew. Even though she didn't speak much, she had a way of making you feel significant. She stayed behind to assist me in finishing that campaign last year, for example. She did even though she didn't have to.

He stopped, swallowed forcefully, and looked down.

"I know she was going through a difficult time, but she...didn't talk much about her personal life." It just didn't seem that horrible to me. I was unaware. He had to pause and wipe his eyes after his voice broke. "I regret not knowing."

We all felt as though a weight was bearing down on us during the ensuing hush. Paul continued to stand there as though he was waiting for something more, but it never materialized. Head lowered, he made his way back to his seat.

Following the service, a reception was held in the adjacent room, where a peculiar assortment of Rachel's acquaintances were thrown together by chance. There was her family, standing rigidly in a corner, nodding courteously as they accepted condolences. They appeared to be eager for everything to end so they could return home and start their private, genuine grieving process.

Coworkers mixed uneasily, not sure if it was appropriate to stay or go. A few engaged in small talk, returning to the cozy cadence of office conversation. Others stared at their shoes and drank sour coffee while standing in corners. There was no genuine energy, yet the murmur of soft chatter filled the room. We all seemed to be going through the motions, carrying out some unwritten duty.

I watched from the doorway, feeling uncomfortable. The normalcy of our lives had been slightly disturbed by Rachel's passing, but not enough to cause a major disturbance. On Monday, we would all return to work, sit at our desks, and go on as if nothing had occurred. Work was like that; even if someone fell off, the machine continued to run.

But it seemed strange for a second, standing there in that chapel. Everything. The fact that she was hardly known to us. Her passing had upset us, but not enough to alter who we were. That life would continue.

I heard someone close to me say, "We should probably head back to the office," as if on cue. That meeting is scheduled for two o'clock.

The words were like a smack, a reminder that the world was still going on outside of this spot, which was supposed to be a haven of introspection and grieving.

I couldn't get rid of the sensation that we had all let her down as I walked out of the chapel and into the last of the afternoon light. Not only in life, but also in death. Yes, we had arrived. However, what if we hadn't been there for her when she most needed us?

Her coworkers had arrived, but what had that accomplished?