Burial
The flight was long, though Ethan barely remembered it. His mind, wrapped in a fog of grief and desperation, kept replaying fragmented memories of James — his laughter, his quirks, and the promises left hanging in the air like unfinished sentences. When the wheels touched down with a jolt, reality crashed back into him. He was here. And James was gone.
Ethan's feet moved on instinct through the familiar airport, numb to the sea of faces around him. He felt like a ghost drifting through the world. The taxi ride to James' family home was just another blur, the outside world grey and cold through the rain-speckled window. As he reached the old wrought-iron gate, his hand trembled. The house beyond seemed the same, yet everything about it felt hollow now.
"You can do this," he whispered to himself.
He rang the bell. The door opened, and there they were — James' parents. They welcomed him with gentle, broken smiles. Ethan could see the shadows behind their eyes, the same shadows he felt in his own heart. Their voices were quiet, their words a balm and a burden.
"We're so glad you came," James' mother said, her voice fragile.
Ethan nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
After brief, polite exchanges, they gave him permission to go upstairs. To James' room. That room that once held so much life, now stilled by absence.
He climbed the stairs slowly, each step a weight pulling him down. His breath grew shallow as he reached the door. His hand hesitated on the doorknob before he pushed it open.
The scent hit him first. That faint, familiar cologne James wore. The kind that lingered on shirts Ethan used to steal when he wanted to piss James off. He stepped inside. The room was neat, unnaturally so, as though trying to preserve something delicate and untouchable.
Ethan's eyes swept over the bed, the posters on the wall, the books lined up on the shelf — everything painfully intact. He ran his fingers over the edge of the desk, feeling the cool wood beneath his fingertips. His gaze landed on the photo of them both, smiling at the beach last summer. James' eyes sparkled in it, a light now extinguished.
His throat clenched.
He turned to leave, but something caught his eye. The side of a black book barely peeking out from under his pillow on the bed. The edges were crumpled, like it had been handled and hidden in haste. He hesitated, then slid it out carefully.
His heart pounded as he opened it. The handwriting was unmistakable — James' handwriting. The ink was smudged in places, as if he'd been crying while writing it.
Before Ethan could make out the words, the door creaked behind him.
"Ethan."
He turned abruptly, clutching the book to his chest. It was Anita, His girlfriend. Her eyes were too wide, too knowing. She stepped into the room, her smile strained.
"Hey, I was looking for you. Everyone's downstairs," she said softly, though her gaze flickered to the book in his hands.
"I'll be down in a minute," he whispered, his voice raw.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, just a flash, before she stepped closer. "Are you okay? You look pale." Her hand reached out, brushing his shoulder in what seemed like comfort, but Ethan felt a flicker of suspicion.
He shook his head, trying to clear the fog. "I just… I need a second."
"I understand," Anita murmured. But her hand slipped lower, fingers grazing the edge of the book.
Before he could reopen the book, his mother knocked on the door and said they were needed immediately.
He slipped the book into his coat, went downstairs and joined everyone.
He watched his friend lowered to the ground, Anita held his hand through it all, while he cried his eyes out.
After the party, he slipped his hand into his coat and the book was gone! Panicking, he went into James' room, lifted everything and couldn't find the book, tracing back his footsteps, he couldn't still find it.
Broken, he wondered who could've stolen it, when and why?