Chapter 122: Funeral
Days Passed.
Inside a large hall, the soft sounds of a choir echoed—gentle voices, slow violins, and the low, melodic hum of singers gathered in the corner. The music was slow and mournful, weaving through the air as people sat in grief. Some cried quietly, parting their gaze from the world as sorrow held them close, like a hunger that could never be sated.
Lilia and Zethan sat together, in a section of the hall designated especially for them. Both were dressed in solemn black. Zethan wore a sleek black suit with matching pants and polished shoes, while Lilia was dressed in a flared black gown that reached her ankles. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun, adorned with a few elegant pins.
Across the hall, her mother sobbed softly, her shoulders trembling with each breath. Beside her, Lilia’s sister Sabrina stood silently, gently patting her shoulder in quiet comfort. Then, without warning, the choir fell silent—cutting off the melody and leaving only the weight of grief hanging in the air.
Finally, a figure walked toward the altar, his steps slow and deliberate. At the center stood her father’s coffin, his picture resting beside it, along with a delicate flower. The man paused before speaking, his voice heavy with practiced solemnity.
"We have lost a brother, a father, an uncle, and a future grandfather," he said.
Lilia stared at him, frozen. Her father’s brother, Mr. Jude, stood there. She couldn’t believe it. She had almost forgotten he existed. Wasn’t he the one her father had clashed with so many years ago? And now, here he was, standing before her father’s coffin, speaking as though he truly cared.
Lilia knew better. She knew exactly what he was: just another man playing a part. She could see right through his words—she knew he didn’t mean a single one of them.
She knew this man too well. In fact, there was a time, when she was between 11 and 12 years old, her father had worked tirelessly—sleepless nights spent just to surpass this man and his company in the rankings of the top five in the city. She remembered it vividly—the tension, the stress, the constant competition. It had caused so many problems that her father had explicitly told them never to speak to this man, even if he ever pretended to be friendly.
It had been so bad back then that even though they were children, Lilia and her sister could see the strain in their parents’ eyes. It was impossible to hide. And now, here she was, facing him on the very day of her father’s death. What an irony.
The man took out a handkerchief, dabbing at his eyes as he sniffled, his voice breaking as he spoke.