The sky was heavy that morning. Clouds pressed low over New York, turning everything gray and quiet. Nobody said much in the house. Even the sound of the kettle felt too loud. Today was the day Uncle Marcus's body would be taken to Washington for the official burial.
Dayo woke before everyone. He made breakfast like he always did — bread, eggs, tea — then quietly set the table. When his mother came out, her eyes were red but calm. His father looked tired, just staring into his cup for a long time before taking a sip.
They drove to Washington with the windows half down, the cold air carrying the sound of their breathing. When they arrived, the place was already filled — rows of white chairs, flags at half-mast, soldiers in perfect lines, families dressed in black. The silence carried weight.
Dayo stood beside his parents as the ceremony began. The folded flags, the slow steps of the guards, the echo of gunfire — every sound cut through the air.
