The church bell rang solemnly in slow, echoing chimes, its sound stretching across the cemetery and into the cloudy skies of Heldale. A steady breeze ruffled the black fabric of suits and dresses, the muted colors painting the scene with grief.
Kant stood near the back of the church pews, dressed in a clean black tuxedo. Beside him, Marin held the hem of her black linen gown with one hand, the other gripping her small purse tightly, her knuckles pale.
Sitting next to them was the man their father had sent — the same Personal Assistant who always showed up instead of him. The man's tall frame slouched in the pew, lanky and oddly too relaxed for a funeral. Thin stubbles lined his jaw. His narrow eyes scanned the room slowly, like he had somewhere else he'd rather be.
Kant didn't ask why their father didn't come. Neither did Marin.
They were used to this. Used to their father's absence in things that concerned their lives the most.
In the front row sat Tam's parents — his mother's sobs came out in silent convulsions, her shoulders trembling beneath her shawl. Tam's father kept a stoic face, but his eyes told a different story — red, sunken, hollowed by the weight of loss. Next to them, Tam's younger brother, maybe around Marin's age, sat stiffly, holding his father's hand in both of his.
Kant's gaze lingered on the boy. He'd never really noticed him in school. Tam's presence had always been too loud, too consuming, for anyone else around him to stand out.
Kant swallowed hard and turned his eyes to the closed casket.
He remembered Tam's laugh. The way he'd always pop up behind him at his locker, borrowing his car or hyping up a new crush like it was a national emergency. He remembered how Tam always said, "High school's just pre-season. College is the big league."
And now, Tam wouldn't even make it there.
Kant tried to make sense of the story. The teachers at school had only shared what the police gave them — that Tam had been involved in a gang-related brawl. That he was found with drugs and a weapon on him. That he died in a hospital after "sustaining injuries from the fight."
But none of it sat right with him.
Tam didn't do gangs. He barely took anything seriously, let alone carry drugs. He was carefree, sure, but not dangerous. Not violent. The only crime Tam ever committed was being too loud in the hallways and too flirtatious with girls who didn't take him seriously.
And the cameras — what about the city's CCTV systems? Heldale was crawling with them. Everyone knew at least three of every five streets had surveillance, especially now with the curfews in place. But no footage was released. No location timestamp. Nothing.
Only words.
Kant felt his jaw tighten. His fingers curled slightly at his sides.
Too many questions. Too few answers. And the only person who could have told him the truth… was now lying in that casket.
The priest's voice echoed faintly through the hall as the eulogy wrapped up. People started to rise one by one to lay white flowers on the casket and in front of it.
Kant stood up with Marin by his side . He stepped slowly to the casket and placed several different flowers of different colors he didn't know the name of down on it. Marin followed suit.
He didn't cry.
He didn't speak.
But in his head, he whispered, "I'll always miss you Tam... your presence, your smile,your tantrums."
Kant and Marin stood for a while and gazed intently at the framed photo of Tam grinning widely placed above the casket.
They turned back toward the pews and walked back to their seats.