From that moment on, Superman had gone mad.
He stubbornly refused to surrender their remains, flying with the three people he loved most to the Fortress of Solitude, hoping to use the restoration matrix to resurrect his eternal lament on Earth.
He failed again and again, trying over and over as if such efforts could delay the inevitable reality of their deaths.
...He wanted to defy that cruel fate.
He wanted to create a sky formed from his own chest for those he loved, amidst the mountain-like misfortunes of destiny.
He did not believe in that so-called destiny...
How could he believe it?
How could he believe it??
How could he close his eyes and calmly embrace the death of everything he had?
Fate had taken everything from him.
All love and hate.
All hope for the future.
All passion.
All compassion.
All... all his joy.
He suddenly found himself so small and powerless in the cruel truth of the world.
That fate, that fate pressing down on him...
Shattered him to pieces.
Condemned him to eternal ruin.
Bruce Wayne could no longer remember how he had retrieved their remains from Superman's hands.
He had arranged all the funeral proceedings for them.
The Scottish bagpipes music wept and lamented, while the oboe player stood solemnly behind the two coffins, like silent ancient stones watching countless rains and winds erode them through the ages.
Their only son hung beneath the tall locust tree in front of the Kent farm, quietly watching the entire funeral.
In the sunlight, he seemed as if he were being blown away by the yellow sun's rays.
The red cape fluttering behind the Son of God was like a splash of the most shocking blood.
The Son of God was silent.
The shadow of the tree casting a bright and dark half-light on his face
His eyes were sunken into the shadow of the tree, with only his resolute, square jaw casting a shadow.
Bruce called out to him: "Clark."
And he looked down at him at the graves of his parents.
"I should have killed him long ago," Superman murmured.
He was not confessing to anyone.
Nor was he issuing a sigh of regret.
He was... declaring war on him.
"Why didn't you kill him?"
Superman's gaze fixed on his face like a sharp knife.
He questioned his most trusted ally, his face marked by sorrow and revelation.
Bruce seemed to sense something.
He suddenly reached out to him in a futile effort, shouting, "No!—"
But the red cape had already disappeared from his view at near-light speed.
...His palm grasped only a gust of rushing wind.
...
The third funeral was for a dream he once had.
Alice, who had fallen into his arms, was dead.
His... Alice.
The unending silence of his silence echoed in his dreams every deep night.
He saw an angel falling from the dark sky, an angel who had betrayed God to come to Earth, its dazzlingly white wings piercing the darkness as it fell into his arms.
That was his Alice.
...Alice.
"And so Alice chased after the rabbit, running and running, but the rabbit ran into a rabbit hole in the tree."
He had once listened to his parents tell this story from a picture book by his bedside as a child.
He had curiously asked, "But Alice, jumping into the rabbit hole, wouldn't she be afraid?"
His parents had smiled and patted his head, "How could Alice be afraid? For her, Wonderland is an adventure. She has immense courage, and Alice is never afraid."
He nodded his head, half-understanding while holding the picture book in his arms.
Yet in his mind, he thought that when he grew up, he would carve out a rabbit hole for Alice so she would no longer be alone in leaping into the bottomless abyss.
...But he had never imagined that one day he would carry the coffin of a deceased boy.
The coffin pressed heavily on his shoulder, a shoulder that had withstood countless blows, gunshots, and knife wounds in the darkness without faltering, now suddenly buckled under the weight of that heavy coffin.
In the unspeakable silence, he carried the boy's coffin toward the cemetery.
They offered fragrant, soft white tulips for the deceased boy, covering his coffin with them, the flower garlands hanging by his face, as if the boy were looking back one last time.
White tulips are the symbols of purity, forgiveness, and final peace.
Soren Hargreaves would rest in the grave chosen by his parents.
He arrived clean and unblemished, and in death, he remained as he was, his face serene, as if merely in a gentle slumber.
Countless people came to attend his funeral.
They held eternal lamps, all dressed in black, silently following the procession carrying the coffin, with occasional whispers of sobbing and mourning.
They were all the people who loved him in this world...
Each one.
Everyone loved him.
How could anyone not love him?
Anyone who had encountered him would fall in love with his smile.
His baby-blue eyes were the clearest crystal of the ocean, a flower blooming on the icy plains.
He was an angel with a smile, descending from heaven to Earth.
Now, he was returning to his rightful heaven.
He said nothing, looking solemn and dignified.
His black suit and overcoat creased deeply with each movement.
Only the hands that were lifting the coffin trembled slightly under the boy's coffin.
As if his memory were just a good dream, and he still had to move forward alone after he woke up.
The child with the brightest smile in the world seemed like a piece of candy fallen into his embrace.
Soren laughed joyfully, "Bruce... Bruce? B, what's wrong with you again?"
His laughter sent a chill down his spine, making his heart race with dread.
It was like a painful light piercing through him.
He shoved Soren away roughly, always reprimanding him with cold indifference, mercilessly keeping him at a distance from his heart.
In the midnight rain of Gotham, he would stand silently, wrapped in his black cape, watching him.