The sky was gray. Cold wind passed through the graveyard. Lucien Veylor stood still beside two black coffins. His black hair moved slightly with the wind. His black eyes — cold and quiet — stared at the ground. That eye color was rare, only seen in the Veylor family.
People dressed in black stood around him. Some whispered. Others watched in silence.
A man walked up beside him. Lucien did not turn to look. The man placed a hand on his shoulder."The police said the brakes didn't work," he said softly.
Lucien said nothing.
Tears rolled down his cheeks. But his face showed no feeling. His heart was too heavy. Too full of sorrow.
The funeral ended. People left.
Lucien walked alone down the road toward his family's mansion. The wind followed him. The house stood quiet and dark, like a shadow waiting to swallow him.
He opened the door.
Inside, he heard voices.
Rachel sat on the couch, holding Seria's hand. Seria was crying hard, her face buried in her hands.Tyson stood next to them, his hand gently on Seria's back.
Lucien stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
The air inside the house was warm, but he still felt cold.
Rachel looked up first. Her eyes were red, and her face pale. She stood quickly and rushed to him.
"Lucien," she whispered, wrapping her arms around him.
He didn't speak, only let his arms fall around her gently. Her warmth was familiar. Comforting. It slowed the pain in his chest.
"I'm so sorry," she said, her voice shaking. "I don't even know what to say. This… it doesn't feel real."
Lucien nodded, resting his chin on her shoulder."I keep thinking I'll wake up," he muttered. "That I'll hear their voices downstairs… laughing. Yelling at me to get out of bed."
Rachel held him tighter. "You're not alone," she said. "I'm here. I always will be."
He believed her. She had been by his side for two years. When he struggled with school. When his parents argued. When he lost sleep. Rachel never left. She knew his worst days and stayed anyway.
Lucien slowly pulled back. Seria was still crying quietly on the couch.
"Seria…" he said softly.
His sister looked up. Her eyes were puffy, her hands trembling. She stood and rushed to him.
"Lucien!" she choked. She threw herself into his chest and hugged him tightly. "I don't know what to do... I-I can't stop thinking about them. I miss them so much."
He wrapped his arms around her like a shield.
"I'm here," he said, running a hand through her hair. "I'll take care of everything. You don't have to worry about anything."
Tyson stepped forward, his expression serious but gentle.
"She's been in shock since the news came," Tyson said. "I stayed here with her. I didn't want her to be alone."
Lucien gave him a small nod.
"Thank you, Tyson," he said. "I mean it. I don't know what I'd do if she was alone today."
Tyson placed a hand on Lucien's shoulder. His grip was firm.
"You're strong, Lucien," he said. "Your parents raised you well. We'll get through this together. You're not alone in this."
Lucien looked between them. His girlfriend. His sister. His sister's boyfriend. The three people closest to him. The only ones he trusted completely.
He gave a faint, tired smile.
"Yeah," he said. "Together."
The door clicked shut behind Rachel and Tyson.
Lucien stood in the quiet. The silence in the house felt heavier now. Like it knew what had been lost.
He turned toward the living room. Seria sat back on the couch, hugging her knees, staring at nothing.
Lucien stepped closer.
"…Did you eat?" he asked gently.
She blinked. Her eyes moved to him, slow and dull, as if waking from a long dream.
"No," she said, then looked away. "Not hungry."
Lucien frowned. "You haven't eaten all day," he said. "I'll make something light—soup or—"
"I said I'm not hungry," she cut in.
The words weren't loud. But they were sharp. Unfamiliar.
Lucien paused.
Seria glanced at him, then looked down again. "Sorry. I just… I want to be alone."
Lucien felt something shift in his chest. Small. Quiet. But it stung.
He gave a slow nod. "Okay. I understand."
She stood, walking past him toward the stairs.
As she passed, she didn't meet his eyes.
"Good night," she mumbled.
"Good night," he replied.
He stood in the hallway alone, watching the empty staircase.
Something felt different. Off. But he couldn't name it.
He was too tired to think. Too broken to question the only person he still had left.
Lucien stood in the hallway as Seria's door clicked shut. The silence wrapped around him like fog.
The quiet felt heavier than before.
His feet moved on their own. He walked down the hall, past old portraits and familiar walls, until he stopped at a door that hadn't been opened since the funeral.
His parents' room.
Lucien hesitated for a second, then turned the knob.
The door creaked open slowly.
The room still smelled like them — faint perfume and cologne, warm fabric, and something harder to describe. Like safety.
The bed was made, but not neatly. As if they left in a rush and never came back.
Lucien stepped inside, slow and careful, like he didn't want to wake the past.
He sat on the edge of the bed. His hands rested in his lap. Then, slowly, he lay back and turned on his side — the same way he used to when he was a child, sneaking in here during storms.
The blanket still felt warm. He pulled it up, just a little. His hand brushed the empty pillow beside him.
A lump rose in his throat.
He didn't cry. Not this time.
But his chest hurt in a way he couldn't explain — like something was pressing down on his heart. Something heavy. Cold.
"I miss you," he whispered into the silence.
He closed his eyes.
Not to sleep.
Just to feel a little closer to them again.
Lucien opened his eyes again.
The room felt colder now.
He sat up slowly and looked around. The silence hadn't changed. But something in him had. He didn't want to lie there anymore.
He stood and walked across the room toward the mirror table — the one his mother always used to sit at in the mornings. The wooden stool was still slightly pulled out, like she had just been there yesterday.
His eyes moved over the silver brush, the soft pink powder box, the small bottles of perfume lined neatly along the edge.
Then he stopped.
The necklace wasn't there.
His mother's favorite — a thin silver chain with a pale blue gem at the center. She wore it every day. It always sat right here in the porcelain dish when she wasn't wearing it.
Lucien stared at the empty dish for a moment.
"…Strange," he muttered. "I was sure it was here."
He leaned in, checked around it. Nothing. No sign of it.
A quiet thought crept in.
Did someone take it?
He shook his head and sighed. "No… maybe Seria took it. She was close to Mom. Maybe she wanted something to remember her by."
That made sense. Didn't it?
But he didn't see the small smudge on the porcelain dish. A fingerprint — too large to be Seria's.