The sky was gray, as though the heavens themselves mourned with the gathering below. A gentle wind stirred the tall trees surrounding the cemetery, carrying with it a silence so heavy it pressed upon every heart.
Rows of black suits and flowing black gowns filled the space, the men solemn in their dark attire, the women veiled in grief, some with wide-brimmed black hats that shadowed their tear-streaked faces. At the very center, resting on a stand draped with white cloth, lay a casket of polished wood. Beside it stood a frame—a photograph of a slim young man with transparent glass that fits his eyes. His calm smile in the picture only deepened the ache in the hearts of all who looked upon it.
The priest stood before them, a tall figure draped in a flowing robe. A rosary hung around his neck, the cross glinting faintly in the pale light. His lips moved in prayers, soft words asking for peace for the soul of the departed.
When it was time for tributes, Nuela stepped forward. Her legs trembled, but her heart carried the weight of what needed to be said. She wore a long black gown that swayed gently with the wind, her hands gripping the folded paper she had prepared. Yet when she opened her mouth, the words came not from the paper but from the deepest corners of her heart.
"Henry…" her voice cracked, her throat heavy with sorrow. She paused, blinking against the hot sting in her eyes. "Henry was… someone who never sought trouble. He carried a quietness about him, a kind of peace that made you feel safe around him. He was always there for me… even when I didn't deserve it."
Her voice faltered as she swallowed back her sobs. The audience stirred, sniffles breaking through the silence. Tears slid freely down faces, for her words carried the truth they all recognized.
"He made me laugh on days when I wanted to cry," Nuela continued, her voice stronger now. "He supported me when I struggled with my academics. He always believed I could do more, be more. And for that, I will never forget him."
By the time her final words slipped into the still air, she was no longer the only one weeping. Henry's classmates, scattered among the rows, bowed their heads. Many of them remembered his quiet kindness, his gentle presence. The weight of grief rested on them all, heavy and unrelenting.
A few meters from the priest stood a woman. She was slim, her face pale, her eyes swollen from sleepless nights of mourning. Anyone who looked closely would see Henry's likeness in her—his mother. She stood silently, clutching a handkerchief, but no words came from her lips. Instead, tears streamed freely, silent rivers of pain. She had lost not just her child, but her only son, the center of her world.
The sound of the piano began, soft notes rising through the hush like whispers of sorrow. The men in black stepped forward and lifted the casket, their movements slow and careful, as though the world itself might shatter if they moved too quickly. Step by step, they carried Henry to his final resting place.
The casket was lowered into the earth. A cry broke from the lips of a woman, quickly joined by muffled sobs around her. Henry's mother reached for Nuela, their hands clasping tightly as though drawing strength from each other. Both women trembled, their tears falling unrestrained, their hearts breaking as one.
The priest lifted his hand, his voice steady despite the grief hanging thick in the air. "From dust we came, and to dust we shall return. May the Lord receive his soul and grant him eternal rest."
The final prayer drifted into silence. The environment was filled with mourning as soil fell onto the casket below.