The rain fell like a thousand tiny drums. Ash stood under a black umbrella, his coat soaked at the shoulders. In the heavy spring air, every breath felt slippery and cold. The wind tugged at his damp hair. Around him, dozens of people huddled in their business or hero suits, many clutching flowers or tissues.
Ahead stood Ken and his mother, both dressed in black. By the polished mahogany coffin, his mother sobbed, shoulders heaving and shawl clutched tight. Ken, seventeen and strong from years of training, looked paler than the dawn. His eyes were empty pools, his hands clenched at his sides, but he didn't cry.
Ash felt a sharp twist in his stomach. Rain poured over Ken's back, darkening his suit. He'd heard the news only hours ago: Ken's dad, a hero and mentor, had fallen in a rescue mission. Ash had flown here as fast as he could. But now that he was here, he realized he had no words that could help.
Ken stepped forward toward the podium beneath the white tent. The rain pattered on the canvas softly. Ken's legs shook, but he stood tall and grasped the microphone with both hands. He began in a shaky voice: "Hi, Dad…" His voice trembled. He swallowed. "I… I can't believe I'm saying this." He cleared his throat. "You always said, 'Live with heart, live with no regrets.' And you… always protected me." His breaths came fast, ragged like wind through broken shutters. "I—" He stopped, emotion choking him. The rain blurred Ash's vision.
Ken shut his eyes tight, arms trembling. He opened them again. "I wish I told you I loved you more. But I… I know you knew."
He paused and took a deep breath. The silence prickled over them, stretched into the rain-washed sky. He continued, voice low: "I… I'll miss your voice. Your laugh. Your hand on my shoulder before a mission. I… I promise I'll keep going. I'll be the hero you wanted me to be."
His words cracked like dry wood. Then, quietly, he added: "Love you, Dad."
He stepped back, trying to hold himself together. His mother touched his shoulder just once, fought sobs behind her chest. Others in the crowd lowered their heads in respect.
Ash didn't realize he was crying until rain dripped onto his neck and his cheeks burned. He blinked and looked at Ken, pale and small but still standing. His eyes were red, but firm. No tears leaked down, yet the sadness in them was clearer than any cry.
Silence hung after the speech. An old friend of Ken's father, voice cracking, said a prayer and called on the crowd to remember his kindness and courage. The coffin lid closed with a soft hush, rain splashing onto polished wood. Ash moved quietly between the crowd, reached Ken, and without a word, drew his coat off and wrapped it around Ken's shoulders. Ken looked up at him, wet hair plastered, lips tight, and Ash stepped in, arm firm around his back.
Ken didn't resist. He let his head bend, resting it on Ash's shoulder for a moment. Ash stood still under the rain, silent, letting Ken lean on him. Together, they walked to the coffin. Ken's mother brought white lilies, her husband's favorite flower. Ken laid them gently over the top. He set the last bloom down with shaky fingers. Flower petals uncurled slowly, rain beating onto them.
Ash helped them place their flowers, never speaking. His heart hammered inside him, aching for Ken but also blazing with pride. In that moment, Ken wasn't just a hero; he was a young man facing a grief no one should know.
Once the ceremony ended, people drifted away toward cars and shuttles waiting in the dim glow of lights. Ken's mother, eyes red-rimmed but steady, placed an arm around Ken's shoulders. Ash gently guided them both toward the shuttle, keeping them steady on wet stone.
Under the storm, beneath the hum of departure announcements and shuttle engines, Ken lifted his head and looked back once. His eyes met Ash's. He didn't smile, but he didn't crumble either. Ash nodded. Ken returned a small, sad smile.
**
Time didn't stop. It never did, no matter how much someone wished it would. The world kept turning. Missions were still happening. People still laughed, buildings still blinked with life, kids still played in parks. But for Ken, everything had slowed into a thick, strange silence.
Weeks had passed since his father's funeral, but the pain hadn't vanished. It was still there. It was quieter now. Duller. But it never really left. Some mornings, Ken would wake up, and for a few seconds, he'd forget. His brain would blink in its half-sleep and almost say, "I wonder if Dad made breakfast." And then it would hit him all over again, like a quiet punch to the chest. No, he didn't. He never would again.
But Ash was there. He didn't say much, and he didn't need to. He never told Ken that things would be okay, because he knew how hollow that sounded. Instead, he just showed up.
Kesher helped in his own way too. He didn't meet Ken. He didn't talk about grief. He didn't try to fix anything. But some days, Ken would find a fresh page of Kesher's poetry delivered to him, folded and quietly written in that strange, heavy handwriting. Sometimes it was about pain, other times about stardust, or rain, or memory. One of them simply said: "Not all silence is sadness. Some is just space where healing waits." Ken didn't always understand the poems, but they comforted him in a weird way. Like someone out there had taken his feelings and turned them into something beautiful.
Dev visited too. Not often, but enough. Sometimes he brought food. Sometimes it was just his presence. He never stayed long; he had missions, responsibilities, people depending on him, but when he sat down with Ken and Ash, he always asked how they were holding up, and he always looked them in the eye when he did.
Once, late at night, Dev had said something that stuck with Ken. He'd placed a hand on Ken's shoulder and said, "Your dad died protecting others. That's the kind of death he would've wanted, if there had to be one. He lived like a hero. And he left like one, too. That's not the end of his story, it's part of yours now."
After that night, something shifted in Ken. Not dramatically, not instantly. But little by little, he began walking lighter. He laughed more often, even if it still carried an edge of sadness. He went back to training. His swordplay, which had always been sharp, got even sharper. There were still moments, moments where his breath hitched and he had to leave a room for a few minutes, but he always came back. He always kept going.
The hero association had awarded Ken's father several medals. Some for bravery, some for sacrifice. They sent them in a box, plain and cold. Ken and his mother didn't know what to do with them at first. They just sat there, untouched for days. Eventually, Ken placed them on a shelf in the living room—not because he wanted to show them off, but because he wanted to remember. Because they meant something.
One day, Ash walked in to find Ken sitting on the floor, polishing one of the medals. Ash just sat beside him, cross-legged, and said nothing for a long while. Then, softly, Ken said, "You know, my dad wasn't perfect. He wasn't always around. He missed some birthdays. He burned eggs. He snored like a dying engine."
Ash smiled. "Sounds like a legend."
Ken smiled, and it was the first real smile Ash had seen from him in weeks. "He was. In his own way."
Ash leaned back against the couch. "I'm glad I met him, even if it was only a few times."
That was how the days passed.
Grief was a strange thing. It didn't leave. It didn't heal like a wound. It just changed shape. And Ken was learning to live with it. Ash was still there, and so was Kesher, and sometimes Dev.