The Day of the Funeral

Time passed far too quickly, and before anyone could truly prepare their hearts, the day of the funeral arrived. It came with unsettling speed, as if time itself did not care that grief was still raw, that sorrow had not yet found a place to rest.

Today, the rain had finally stopped, leaving behind air that felt heavy and damp against the skin. The cemetery ground was still wet, the soil releasing a sharp, fresh scent—bitter and earthy at once—something difficult to describe, yet impossible to ignore. It lingered in the air, clinging to every breath.

For days, rain had fallen without mercy. The sky remained dark, thick with clouds, while the sun barely made an appearance. It felt as though the heavens themselves were mourning, bowing in silence for the woman they had come to lay to rest.

Owen stood upright before his mother’s grave, one hand tucked into the pocket of his black suit. His gaze was fixed on the cold granite headstone that marked the final resting place of the woman who had once been the center of their entire world—their mother. The stone was unyielding, silent, bearing her name with a permanence that felt almost cruel.

Beside him, Elliot stood frozen. His body trembled subtly, his breathing uneven, betraying emotions he could not fully contain. Several times, he lifted his hand to wipe away the tears that slipped past his lashes. Though he was already in college, Elliot had always possessed a gentle heart. As the youngest child in the family, he had been especially close to their mother before she fell into a coma. Her absence had hollowed him out in ways he never truly learned how to articulate.

One by one, relatives and close friends offered their condolences and quietly took their leave, until the cemetery slowly emptied, leaving only the two brothers behind. Dr. Lisa approached them, resting a comforting hand on each of their shoulders. Her smile was soft, carefully measured, and her words carried a calm sincerity.

“You both did everything you could,” she said gently. “Now it’s time to lean on each other.”

Owen nodded, offering no reply. He knew words held no power against the reality they were now forced to accept. Turning slightly, he looked at his younger brother. Elliot met his gaze, eyes red and swollen, still wet with tears. A thick silence settled between them, so heavy it felt suffocating. It was as though the grave before them was not merely a place where their mother rested, but a void that swallowed every memory—every laugh, every tear, every longing they had ever shared.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Owen remained still, staring at the headstone as though trying to carve every detail into his memory before the world demanded he move on. The carved name, the dates of birth and death, each carefully etched letter—everything became something he could not bring himself to let go of.

“…It’s time for us to go home,” Owen finally said, his voice low and weighed down by grief. He turned fully toward Elliot and reached out, grasping his brother’s trembling hand. “Let’s go home.”

Elliot nodded faintly, still unable to form words. Slowly, they walked away from the grave, leaving behind the cold air steeped in sorrow. Owen glanced back one last time, committing the scene to his mind, to his heart. This was the final moment he would stand beside his mother in this place—before lowering his hand, stepping away, and returning to a modest home that had long since lost the sound of her laughter.

---

At home, silence draped itself over every room like a heavy curtain. Owen unlocked the door with the key he carried and stepped inside with Elliot. Their house was small and simple, yet warm—filled with memories no amount of money could ever replace. Elliot sank onto the sofa, still quiet, while Owen walked slowly into the living room.

His eyes drifted across the familiar objects left behind—family photographs hanging on the wall, a flower vase their mother always placed carefully on the table, books neatly arranged on the shelves. Owen lingered before one particular family photo, his fingers tracing the edge of the frame as if reaching back into a past that now felt unbearably fragile.

The photograph showed their father, wearing a faint smile that barely masked the exhaustion and fear in his eyes. Owen could almost feel the pressure his father had been under at the time—the collapse of the family business they once took pride in, the mounting debts, and the heart attack that ultimately claimed his life. All of it had fallen onto their mother’s shoulders alone. She bore it quietly, a woman who always appeared strong, always smiling, hiding her wounds behind unwavering resilience.

This small house was bought from what little remained of Father’s life insurance after the bank seized our old home. It may not be where we were born, but it became the place where we learned how to rise again…

Since their mother fell into a coma after the accident five years ago, Owen and Elliot rarely returned home. Owen had been consumed by work and the responsibility of staying close to the hospital, while Elliot attended boarding school, his visits becoming fewer as time passed.

Mother… after all this time, Elliot and I have finally come back home.

Owen closed his eyes briefly, allowing memories to wash over him. He remembered nights filled with silence, when he and Elliot slept while their mother remained in her study, staring at documents, phones, and endless financial reports. He remembered her embrace—always warm, always comforting—despite the exhaustion etched deep into her pale face.

On the bookshelf, Owen discovered an old photo album. As he opened the first page, a bitter smile tugged at his lips. The small photographs captured simple moments: dinners in the kitchen, birthdays with candles nearly burned out, warm hugs that offered quiet reassurance. There was laughter preserved in those images, along with a promise their mother once made:

No matter what happens, you will always have each other.

Owen swallowed hard. He knew now—he had been selfish. He had clung to the belief that his mother would wake up one day, even after doctors warned that she might remain completely paralyzed for the rest of her life. He refused to accept reality because he alone truly understood his own feelings. Only he knew how fragile his heart became whenever he thought of her, how overwhelming his fear of losing her had been.

Because of his selfishness, his mother—who should have passed away five years ago—had been forced to suffer longer. Alive, yet not truly living. Dead, yet not allowed to die. It was a burden he felt could never be forgiven.

Elliot broke the silence. “Brother… I—I don’t know what to do,” his voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “I feel so empty…”

Owen looked at his brother gently, lowering himself slightly to meet Elliot’s gaze. “I know,” he said softly. “I feel it too.”

“What… what are we supposed to do now, Brother? Mom is gone…”

“Elliot, don’t worry too much,” Owen replied carefully. “This pain will pass—just like when we lost Dad ten years ago.”

Elliot lowered his head. That time had been terrifying as well—the moment he realized their father would never breathe again.

“Listen,” Owen continued quietly. “What matters is that we still have each other. We have to stay strong together, Elliot. I… I will always be here for you.”

Elliot nodded slowly. At the very least, he still had his brother. He wasn’t completely alone in this cruel world—was he?

They sat together in the living room. Owen drew a deep breath and looked around the house once more. Though it was simple, every object carried traces of their mother—small details that reflected her love, diligence, and sacrifices she had never spoken aloud.

On the table, Owen found a small box. Inside were old letters, a few pieces of jewelry, and older family photographs. He opened the first letter and read it slowly. His mother’s handwriting was neat, her words simple yet filled with care. A bitter smile crossed his face. She had always written letters, as if trying to ensure that even when she was no longer beside them, she would remain present through words and feelings.

Owen lowered his head, closing his eyes as memories flowed freely. He remembered his father’s illness and death, his mother carrying everything alone, and himself—too young to fully grasp the weight of it all. He remembered the long nights when his mother still smiled despite the deep wounds he knew she carried. He remembered a much younger Elliot, clinging to his hand, searching for safety in a world that was never kind.

He took a slow, steady breath, trying to calm his racing heart. Selfish? Perhaps. But he knew that only he truly understood the pain and love he had buried deep inside. Only he knew how heavy the responsibility had been on his shoulders since childhood.

Owen looked at the family photograph one last time. A faint smile appeared on his lips, though his eyes burned with unshed tears. He knew his mother would never wake up again—but her memories lived on. He would hold onto them tightly, protect Elliot, and ensure that the love she left behind would never fade.

Gently, he closed the box.

“We’ll be okay, Elliot,” he whispered. “We have to keep living, even if it’s hard. That’s what Mom and Dad would want. And I… I have to be strong—for both of us.”

Elliot looked up at his brother and nodded slowly. His tears had begun to subside, though his eyes remained red. Owen reached out, gripping Elliot’s hand firmly, becoming the support he had always tried to be—even as his own heart remained fragile.

Outside the window, the sun finally emerged, already beginning its descent behind the clouds. Evening had arrived.

Soft light filtered through the curtains, illuminating their small living room and bringing a quiet warmth to the sorrow that lingered. Owen watched it silently, drawing in a long breath. For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to feel a small sense of peace—that although their mother was gone, her presence remained here, in this house, and in their hearts.