Chapter Five: When Farewell Became Forever
Rain fell in a quiet, respectful drizzle.
It did not pour. It did not storm. It fell as though the sky itself understood that anything louder would be an insult to the dead.
Black umbrellas dotted the cemetery like wilted flowers, unmoving beneath a sky of dull gray. The wind was gentle, carrying with it the scent of wet earth and fresh incense. At the center of it all stood a single gravestone, newly placed, the soil around it still dark and unsettled.
Yuan.
His name was carved cleanly into the stone—too clean, too permanent for someone so young.
The coffin had already been lowered. The prayers had been spoken. The final rites were nearing their end, yet no one seemed ready to leave. It was as though walking away would make the truth settle deeper, heavier, more real.
Yuan's family stood together.
His grandparents were seated beneath a canopy, their once-straight backs bent with age and grief. His grandfather stared at the gravestone with eyes dulled by years and loss, lips pressed into a thin line that trembled despite his effort to remain composed. His grandmother clutched a handkerchief, dabbing silently at her eyes, each movement slow and weary, as though even crying had become exhausting.
Beside them stood Yuan's parents.
His mother's shoulders shook despite her attempts to remain steady. She held onto her husband's arm, fingers digging into his sleeve as if he were the last thing anchoring her to the world. Her eyes were swollen, red from endless tears that had not ceased since the moment the hospital had delivered the news.
His father stood rigid.
Too rigid.
His face was pale, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the gravestone. He had not cried—not here, not yet. But the way his fists tightened and loosened, the way his breathing faltered every few seconds, told a different story. Grief had not spared him; it had simply chosen a quieter way to destroy him.
Behind them stood two smaller figures.
Yuan's younger brother and sister.
They did not fully understand death—not the way adults did—but they understood absence. They understood that their brother would no longer walk through the front door, no longer ruffle their hair, no longer complain jokingly when they borrowed his things.
His brother stared at the ground, teeth clenched, eyes burning with confusion and anger he could not name.
His sister clutched a small flower tightly, knuckles white, tears rolling down her cheeks without restraint. She sniffed loudly, unaware of how her cries echoed through the hearts of those around her.
And a short distance away from all of them—
She stood alone.
The girl.
Yuan's girl.
She held the elven plushie tightly against her chest.
Its soft green ears were slightly bent, its stitched smile frozen in an expression that now felt painfully cruel. It was the same plushie Yuan had bought her without hesitation, smiling as though the money had meant nothing compared to the way her eyes had lit up.
She had not cried.
Not here.
Her eyes were open, staring at the gravestone, yet they looked strangely unfocused—as if she were looking through it, past it, into something only she could see. Her face was pale, lips parted slightly, breath shallow.
She looked fragile.
Broken.
And utterly alone.
People noticed.
They whispered among themselves, glancing at her with pity and worry. More than once, someone took a hesitant step in her direction—only to stop.
What words could possibly help?
What comfort could exist for someone who had lost the center of their world so suddenly, so violently?
No one approached her.
Not because they didn't care.
But because they feared that any word spoken would shatter what little remained of her composure.
The priest concluded the final prayer.
The sound of soil hitting the coffin echoed softly, each thud sealing reality deeper into place. One by one, people began to leave flowers, bows, and quiet murmurs of farewell.
The girl did not move.
She watched.
When it was finally over—when the cemetery began to empty and the rain softened into a thin mist—she turned and walked away.
No one stopped her.
No one called her name.
She walked alone.
The road home felt longer than it ever had before.
Each step felt heavy, her legs moving out of habit rather than intent. The world around her continued as though nothing had changed—cars passed, shops remained open, people talked and laughed.
It felt wrong.
Her mind replayed memories without mercy.
Yuan standing awkwardly in front of her seven years ago, nervously scratching his cheek as he introduced himself for the first time.
Yuan offering her his umbrella when she forgot hers, both of them ending up soaked and laughing beneath the rain.
Their first argument—small and ridiculous—followed by his clumsy apology and her laughter as she forgave him.
Their first kiss.
It had been shy and brief, their faces burning red as they pulled away, hearts pounding like they had committed some great crime. She remembered how he had smiled afterward, how his eyes had softened as if he had discovered something precious.
She hugged the plushie tighter.
Her fingers brushed against its fabric, and she remembered his voice.
"You like it? Then it's worth it."
Tears welled up—but did not fall.
Her eyes felt dry.
Empty.
By the time she reached the crosswalk near her neighborhood, the sky had cleared slightly. The pedestrian light glowed red.
She stopped automatically.
Cars passed by in steady streams, engines humming, tires hissing against wet asphalt. She stared straight ahead, barely registering the movement.
The light changed.
Green.
She stepped forward.
Halfway across the crosswalk, she heard it.
A horn.
Sharp.
Desperate.
She turned her head slowly.
A car was coming.
Too fast.
Its headlights were bright, swerving erratically. The screech of tires cut through the air, the smell of burning rubber following close behind.
The driver's face was panicked.
The brakes had failed.
People screamed.
Someone shouted her name—but she did not hear it.
Time slowed.
Her body did not move.
Not because she didn't want to.
But because, deep down, she was tired.
As the car closed the distance, her vision blurred—not with fear, but with something else.
Warmth.
She saw him.
Yuan.
He stood before her, whole and smiling, wearing the same gentle expression he always had when he looked at her. Behind him rose tall, radiant gates bathed in golden light, clouds curling around their pillars like living things.
He lifted a hand and waved.
"You took your time," he said softly, smiling wider.
Her lips trembled.
For the first time since his death, her eyes filled with tears.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
He shook his head.
"You don't have to be."
The impact came.
Pain was brief—almost nonexistent.
Then there was only light.
The car skidded to a halt, its front crushed, steam rising from the hood. People rushed forward, shouting, crying, calling for help that came too late.
Her body lay still on the crosswalk.
The plushie slipped from her arms, landing beside her, its stitched smile facing the sky.
And somewhere beyond the veil of the world, two figures stood side by side, hands entwined, walking forward together—leaving behind a world that had failed to keep them.
The heavens closed their gates.
And silence followed.