The next morning, the sky above Halmswick was grey. No wind. No sound — only the soft dripping of dew onto cold earth.
Noen knelt before her grave.
He had buried her only a few hours ago. The soil was still fresh, dark, damp.His shoulders shook without pause. He cried — loud, hoarse, uncontrollable. Again and again.
Tears ran down his face, dripped into the earth, and vanished in it like into a bottomless abyss. He bent forward, pressed his forehead to the ground, his hands buried deep in the dirt.
The soil was cold — yet it still smelled like her.
His body trembled with every breath, as if he could no longer bear the air itself.
His clothes — white, threaded with fine golden lines — were soaked, yet strangely untouched. No dirt clung to them. It was as if even the earth refused to reflect on him.
He kept crying. Without pause. His voice broke, but the tears would not stop. Nothing within him wished to become still.
The sun had long passed above him, yet he had not noticed.
When evening came, he was sitting on the roof.
The roof they had always sat upon.
The sun sank over Halmswick, casting long shadows over the narrow streets.
Noen sat there, his head lowered, his face wet with tears.He was still crying. Endlessly.
Every memory, every laugh, every thought birthed new tears. He was empty — and yet overflowing with pain.
His breathing came in broken, ragged gasps. His hands trembled in his lap. The city below was silent.
Only the faint sound of his sobbing drifted over the rooftops.
"HOW MUCH LONGER ARE YOU GOING TO SIT HERE AND CRY?!"
Noen flinched.
He half-turned — and saw that old man from yesterday standing behind him.
"YOU REALLY ARE PATHETIC!"
— Since when has he been here? …I didn't even notice. —