As the weather began to turn cold—despite the absence of wind—families gathered at the back of a large estate. There, among several tombstones arranged in a row, stood a group dressed in black suits: five adult men, four times as many women, and even more children of various ages.
A man, likely the oldest among them, stood behind the grave and began to speak:
"…Although he had a strong temper, he often showed that sliver of kindness he still carried."
Despite the death of his father, his voice did not falter. In fact, he sounded dignified, composed.
"…I'm standing here because of his upbringing. Because of the firm hand he raised me with. As you all know, he was a difficult man. And I'm probably one of the many who, at times, hated him with all my heart…"
"But I loved him. And I was deeply grateful for the way he raised me, because I am who I am and have what I have thanks to him."
As the funeral continued, a few more family members stepped forward to share their thoughts. Eventually, everything came to an end. The man who had spoken first approached a young boy with a completely blank expression—he wasn't even twenty years old—and said:
"I know this must be hard for you. You were the closest to him…"
"You should know, he said you were his favorite grandson, even at the end. And how could you not be? You spent the most time with him. You were the most patient, out of everyone."
The boy nodded slightly, still expressionless. But he remained there, frozen in place, even as the others began to return to the estate.
He lifted his gaze to the grey sky, veiled in clouds, and a thought passed through him:
*But it's not. I don't feel anything. Not really. In fact… I feel worse because I don't feel. I should be grieving. I should be angry. I should hate the world. And yet what fills me… is emptiness. Absolute indifference.*