(ARIA)
Two days later, I saw my father's body.
The room was freezing, but I barely felt it. The scent of antiseptic and cold steel lingered in the air, sterile and sharp. Everything looked washed out. Pale.
Even him.
He didn't look like the man I remembered.
Didn't look like the man who died in my arms, blood pooling beneath us, whispering apologies with his last breath.
Now he was just… still.
Lifeless.
Eyes closed. Hands folded over his chest like he was pretending to sleep.
But he wasn't pretending.
I stood there, arms locked to my sides, fingers curled inwards like they wanted to claw something open. But I didn't cry.
I Couldn't.
There was no space left for tears inside me. Just this strange, dull hollowness. Like something had hollowed me out with a spoon and left only the skin behind to perform grief like a routine.
I stared at him.
Long enough to start wondering if maybe he'd open his eyes just once. Just to tell me he forgave me too.
