Edward turned slightly to look back.
He stared blankly at the gathered mourners. Some were sobbing quietly, others sat sternly with glistening eyes full of sorrow and melancholy, silently screaming how much they would miss the beloved departed. A few whispered god-knows-what, subtly pointing toward him and his family—but those were mostly Hallington's friends, colleagues, and their families. His own friends' families and his mother's friends sat motionless as corpses on the pews, paying rapt attention to the service.
The dress code was black—a colour that felt heavier, more sombre and lifeless than usual in the weight of this occasion.
Edward flinched at the placement of a masculine hand on his shoulder, only to realize it was his father. He turned to him, absentminded and unsure of how to respond.
"Hm?" he managed to hum.
"Renee is done with her eulogy. It's your turn," Jarold said softly, gesturing toward the pulpit with his eyes.
Edward drew in a deep breath, catching the scent of polished wood and old stone. Despite it, the atmosphere felt thick and cool.
He adjusted his tailored black wool jacket, its slim cut sharpening his shoulders and hinting at wealth without excess. It matched flawlessly with his slim wool trousers and black leather Oxfords, overall giving him an alluring, regal appearance—like most of the mourners present.
Looking to his right, Edward caught the reassuring glances of his parents. To his left, the supportive eyes of his best friends.
He rose, inhaled once more, and began his walk to the pulpit—each step measured, precise, almost royal. Renee descended with a warm smile as the applause for her eulogy begun. Their paths crossed briefly; Edward returned her smile before marching forward.
The applause died down.
At the pulpit, Edward rested his hands on the polished wood and first took in the sight of the church. Fewer than sixty mourners sat before him, excluding the reverend, lay readers, choir, and other church officials positioned behind him at the altar.
He didn't mind how small the gathering looked. The vastness of the amphitheatre-like church made the number seem smaller than it truly was.
Taking in one more glance at the mourners—who filled only a quarter of the two wide columns of pews on either side of the aisle—Edward cleared his throat, shaking off the last trace of stage fright.
"First of all, I want to thank you all for being here," he began, projecting his voice clearly. "This ceremony was announced on very short notice, yet you all made it. Thank you—it means so much to me." He turned briefly toward the altar. "Thank you as well, Rev. Adhaya, and every one of you church officials. This couldn't have been possible without your efforts." The officials nodded in acknowledgement.
Facing forward again, Edward continued, "Now, like the two gorgeous women who spoke before me—my mom and my aunt—I also don't have my eulogy written down. I'll speak from the heart, and I pray the Lord seals my lips if I ramble too much… as I probably will. I'm a bit of a talker sometimes."
The crowd burst into a brief ripple of laughter, warmed by the playful gesture Edward made as he admitted it.
"…I'm Edward Tuweku, son of Jarold and Miridald Tuweku," he said, gesturing toward his parents in the front pew. His voice shifted now, carrying both weight and melancholy. "To be honest, I don't even remember when or where Hallington and I first met. But I do remember this: from the moment I needed a Hallington in my life, he was there. Always there. So I might just say… he has been there since my dawn."
"Hallington was my second father. He taught me so many things, so many lessons and values. He was a good, kind, loving, intelligent man. But he could also be goofy sometimes." Edward chuckled at the memory, and several who knew Hallington well nodded with fond smiles, their eyes shining with shared remembrance.
"I never once felt a difference between us. Never felt like race or anything else stood between us. We didn't spend too much time together, but every moment we did was nothing less than family bonding. And I'll treasure that forever."
Some eyes in the congregation welled with tears, the muted glow of light filtering through the tall, frosted-glass windows falling softly on their faces. A few people quickly brushed at their cheeks, the silence punctuated only by shuffling feet and quiet sniffs.
Edward stepped down from the pulpit and walked toward the casket. Every gaze followed him.
Reaching it, he placed a trembling hand on the glass and stared down at the pale, lifeless body resting peacefully within. Hallington's fit frame was dressed neatly in a white cotton robe, tied with a black sash. Though dead, he looked ethereal, touched by the faint rays drifting gently across his still profile.
Edward's eyes blurred instantly. He tried to contain himself, but it was beyond control; hot tears spilled rapidly down his cheeks.
It was the first time he had truly looked at him since entering the church. The first time he had seen him since hearing of his death. The first time in a long time—only to see him again like this. In a coffin.
"I never thought a day like this would come," Edward whispered, breaking the heavy silence. His voice cracked as he sobbed. "Never thought it could happen."
Still with his hand on the glass, he turned to face the crowd. "I'm sorry… I know I might be overreacting a bit now." He wiped his tears quickly.
"Exactly not, son!" a man called from the congregation.
That drew a soft chuckle from Edward and a few others while some remained nodding in agreement.
But the tears returned as he spoke again. "When I first heard of his passing—up until just a few seconds ago—I hadn't truly accepted it. I guess… not seeing him with my own eyes made me believe he wasn't really gone. I don't know if you understand me—"
"We do, son," Jarold assured from the pew.
Edward looked back at Hallington. "But now that I see him here… knowing he won't open his eyes again, won't ever speak again, won't fist-bump my shoulder after proving a point again… it finally dawns on me that he's gone. Truly gone." He wiped his cheeks. "I'll never see him again. We won't share our secret adventures again."
Composing himself, Edward fixed his tearful gaze on Hallington. "I'll miss you, buddy. More than I can ever comprehend. May the angels guide your beautiful soul to eternal peace. From the dawn of time till its dusk, remember? This won't be our dusk. I'll see you again… someday."
Turning to the congregation, he finished softly: "Thank you. That's all I had to say."
He walked back to his seat, the congregation rising into gentle, heartfelt applause.
------
Once seated again, Edward let himself sink into the memories of Hallington as a way to distract himself while the last part of the service commenced.
"That was... inexplicably beautiful, son," Edward heard his father say, feeling the weight of his hand settle on his shoulders.
Edward gave him a brief, sad smile before turning his blank gaze back to the reverend at the pulpit, then drifted once more into Hallington's memories.
Once the reverend had finished speaking, the choir arose and performed something so angelic that the heavens themselves might have wept upon hearing it.
The service ended with the choir's performance.
People rose and began socialising—each with something to say, and others with itching questions to ask.
Edward remained seated, unmoved, unbothered.
His dull gaze fixed on his late friend's casket, his mind racing with countless thoughts. Still grieving.
Anita, who had been quietly sitting to his left, said nothing; she only watched him with empathy. Come to think of it, she had never seen him this sad after learning of Hallington's passing. Not even yesterday, with all his acting out.
It was just like he had said: finally seeing Hallington in a box made him truly believe he was gone. It made his mind fully comprehend that Hallington was no more.
Suddenly, Edward stood up, his eyes locked on the coffin, his expression almost lifeless.
"Ed..." Anita drew back her hand, deciding it best to let him grieve in his own way; he needed it.
Edward began marching toward the casket.
"Where is he going?" Mdachi bent down and whispered into Anita's ear.
Anita startled slightly. "Don't do that," she reprimanded, mild irritation lacing her tone.
"What?" Mdachi whispered back softly. He repositioned himself beside her—where he had sat during the entire service.
"Weren't you with your mother?" Anita asked, sparing him a glance before turning her focus back to Edward, who had now reached the casket.
"She just had a question about some home matter. She's chatting with her fellow women now." He pointed toward where Neema stood with Miridald, Jenevive, and other women, solemnly conversing.
"Hm," Anita hummed, observing the sight before looking away.
"I assume you've already seen where he was going," she said, gesturing toward Edward.
"Is he still not talking?"
"I haven't tried again."
"Our poor friend. I don't think I've ever seen him this devastated."
Anita turned to Mdachi with a sad, sincere look. "Neither have I."
"Pole... but I can't help asking—"
Anita raised her hand. "I know you, Dachi... and where you're going with this. But now is not the time to talk about such matters." She sighed. "For now... we mourn."
He adjusted his glasses. "Of course. I'm sorry. That was inconsiderate of me." His tone carried guilt.
Anita placed a hand over his. "It's okay..." she assured softly, a slight warm smile lighting her face.
---
Meanwhile, Edward walked past the crowd until he reached the coffin.
Just like before, he placed his hand on the glass, staring at Hallington. This time, he did not cry. His eyes had grown unaccustomed to tears; they had already dried up.
"Look," Edward began silently, "I'm wearing one of those elegant, crisp white shirts of yours you loved so much for their dazzling, unique cuffs. The one I stole from you, only for you to find out later when I wore it at that ceremony." The corners of his lips lifted faintly. "I don't even recall which ceremony it was... but I do remember how shocked you looked when you saw me in this shirt. I loved it then, I still do, so I had to wear it—even though back then it almost wore me."
He glanced down, brushing his thumb gently over the button placket, feeling the smoothness of the fabric. The shirt fit him perfectly now. And it still carried the faint, resilient scent of Hallington's cologne: Old Spice.
"But you didn't yell or get mad at me, like I thought you would," he continued. "Instead, you gave it to me wholeheartedly and told me how gentlemanly I looked. You also reminded me that stealing was wrong, and that I should have just asked—because you would have given it to me." He chortled softly. "One of those life lessons you reinforced for my parents: stealing is wrong..."
Edward turned, sensing a presence behind him.
Two bald, broad-shouldered men stood there.
He knew exactly who they were.
With a sigh, he stepped aside.
The men wasted no time. They closed the coffin and began pushing it out of the church.
They were the ones tasked with taking the body to the cremation centre, as instructed by the Canadians.
"Goodbye, friend," Edward thought as he watched the casket being pushed down the aisle on the bier. "I'll miss you..." His hand brushed against the shirt. "And your exquisite taste in shirts."
As the casket moved forward, people stepped aside to make way.
All eyes followed it, sadness etched into their faces. That was as far as they could go in associating with Hallington after his death. Even Edward and his family were forbidden from being involved further. The Canadians had the rights over Hallington's remains, so there was nothing they could do but watch him being rolled away.
The whole scene stretched into slow motion for Edward, until the men left the church. But suddenly, from the corner of his eye, he noticed movement up in the balcony.
He snapped his gaze upward—
A figure stood there, silhouetted by the coloured light pouring through the rose window at the back of the balcony.
A woman, moving toward the staircase.
Edward squinted, straining to see.
Lo and behold—
Madam Beatrice!
The light angled just enough to reveal her face.
Edward's body went stiff, a cold chill racing through every fibre of his being. His eyes widened in horror.
"Ma... Madam Beatrice?" he whispered in disbelief.