Chapter 78: The Companionless World, III
The drive was long and quiet.
Outside, the city gave way to a slow crawl of thinning trees and distant rooftops. Spring clung to the edges of landscapes—buds trembling on thin branches, grass half-awake and scattered with dew. The road curved gently through a corridor of soft gray sky and pale green growth.
Lucien sat with his elbow propped against the window, fingers resting at his temple, gaze fixed forward. His reflection moved faintly in the rain-misted glass—angular, unreadable. Light filtered through the clouds in long silver bands, washing the car's interior in a cold, sterile tone.
Julian sat beside him, posture composed but not as ease. His dark coat was sharply pressed, the lapel stitched clean. A navy tie knotted neatly at his collar, chosen for solemnity rather than flair. He adjusted it quietly with one hand, smoothing it down as if preparing for a conversation that hadn't begun.
The silence was not strained, but heavy. A silence with shape.
Julian cleared his throat lightly. "The west gate should be open… I made sure to call ahead."
Lucian gave a slight nod, eyes still forward.
Julian hesitated, then turned his gaze back to the road. Rain clung to the window in fine rivulets, gathering in the corners before trailing downward.
"I thought I should dress properly," Julian said after a moment. "I wasn't sure what would be…"
Lucien's voice came quiet and clipped. "It's fine."
The words landed without edge, but without warmth.
Between them, the seats were smooth black leather, untouched. The central console glowed faintly with inactive displays. A hint of pine drifted from the vent, subtle and artificial.
The road beneath them shifted—gravel now, crunching under the weight of the car as they turned off the main road. Ahead, the cemetery gates rose into view. Iron-wrought, pale with early rust, their scrollwork curled like dormant vines.
Beyond the gates, the path sloped gently upward through rows of white stones and trimmed hedges. The grass was immaculate, clipped short and still damp from the morning rain. Cherry trees lined the outer walk—late bloomers, their petals just beginning to open.
Julian watched them as they passed, eyes tracking the rise and fall of color.
Lucien did not turn his head.
The car glided forward into the cemetery grounds, swallowed by the stillness of the hill. No voices. No movement. Only the quiet rhythm of rain, and the soft exhale of machines slowing to idle.
They had arrived.
***
The graveyard sloped gently upward, its stones arranged with methodical precision. Each marker stood flush with the trimmed grass, evenly spaced, washed clean by the recent drizzle. The air smelled faintly of wet bark and earth, and the stillness around them was so complete it bordered on reverence.
Lucien walked slightly ahead, his steps silent on the damp gravel path. Julian followed just behind, hands folded neatly behind his back. No wind stirred. Even the birds seemed distant.
Rows of names passed by. Carved letters in pale stone. Lucien did not glance at any of them. He moved with the familiarity of someone who had walked this path many times before.
Julian finally spoke, voice subdued.
"Do you ever bring anyone else here?"
Lucien's eyes stayed on the path. "No."
A pause.
Julian nodded softly to himself. "So I'm the first, then."
Lucien didn't answer.
They reached the crest of the hill. The tree line broke slightly, revealing a solitary bench beside a granite marker—simpler than the others. No statue. No angels. Just a name, carved in clean serif.
Julian slowed as they approached. He looked at the stone, read it silently, then looked back to his father.
Lucian was already seated, one leg crossed over the other, hands resting calmly in his lap.
Julian stood for a moment, unsure whether to speak. Then he knelt.
"Hi," he said gently to the stone. "I—I never got to meet you, but I've heard a lot… From grandfather. From Uncle Kieran…"
He paused. The silence stretched. Then he continued.
"I just thought you should know… I'm trying. With everything. I work alongside Father at Chronos. I've been helping with the international expansion. We've secured—sorry, you probably don't care about all the details. Uhm. Kieran says I'm progressing faster than he expected… father—well he doesn't say much."
He smiled faintly. "Max says I talk too much. I probably do."
Lucien's posture shifted slightly.
Julian looked down at his shoes, wiped a bit of grass from his knee.
"I try to check in… on father, when I can. I know he doesn't need me to, but… I just want to make sure he's not carrying all of it alone. I think he forgets to even breathe sometimes."
Julian stood slowly, brushing the front of his coat.
"I just hope I'm someone you'd be proud of," he said, voice quieter. "That's all."
He stepped back, letting the quiet return.
Lucien's eyes remained on the ground.
Julian glanced once more toward the stone, then toward his father, then stepped away to give him space.
The silence that followed was different. Not heavy. Not uncomfortable.
Just. Private.
Lucien leaned slightly forward. Eyes on the stone. His breath was still. His face unreadable.
Sorry.
It's been a long time.
I should've come sooner.
I just… didn't know what to say.
I never do.
That's why I brought Julian… I thought. Maybe. He'd know what to say…
They said you died the day I was born. I never had the chance to know you... But still, somehow, I feel the weight of your absence more than anything else in my life.
You're the only one in this world who wasn't built for me.
The only one not sculpted to stay at my side.
I don't even know what your voice sounded like.
And maybe… that's why you never left.
Everyone else… they were created to fill a void. To echo someone I lost.
But you… you were never there. I can't remember you, can't replace you, can't even imagine you properly—your absence is real.
And that makes you more present to me than any of them.
I built a world. I gave it order. I made time obey. And still, I can't fix the hole you left.
You're the silence behind every success. The name I don't remember. The face I can never dream.
He exhaled once, barely audible. Then sat back.
Julian hadn't gone far. He stood a respectful distance away, pretending to look at a nearby stone.
To him, it seemed as if his father sat in silence for a few minutes.
But when he turned, he saw his father's expression shift—barely.
A faint crease in his brow. A soft fall of his jaw. A sadness that never made it past his eyes.
Julian didn't interrupt—didn't speak.
He simply nodded once.
For the first time in his life, he truly saw his father.
***
The gravel crunched softly beneath their shoes, a slow, measured rhythm that echoed faintly through the trees. The path wound through a stretch of tall birches and crooked oaks. Long beams of gold streaked between branches, touching down in broken pieces across the walkway.
Julian walked beside Lucien, a pace in-front, his hands in the pockets of his coat. His shoes were beginning to gather dust at the edges, but he didn't mind.
"I used to wait for you at the top of the stairs," he said quietly.
Lucien didn't respond.
Julian continued, voice even. "When I was young. When I heard your car coming up the driveway. I'd be halfway through whatever lesson Mom had assigned me, and I'd drop everything. Just to be there when you walked in."
Lucien's eyes didn't leave the path.
I thought if I showed up enough—stood straight enough—you'd say something. Maybe ask how I did that day. Maybe tell me what I could do better."
Julian smiled faintly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You never did. But that was fine. I told myself it meant you expected more. Maybe I was doing well enough not to need praise."
They passed a bend in the path where the trees thinned, letting in a wash of sky. The sun sat low now, caught between clouds and treetops.
Julian's voice softened. "I remember the day you first let me sit in during a meeting. You didn't say anything, just waved me in like I belonged there. That meant more to me than anything else. It felt like… a beginning."
Lucien remained silent. His gaze forward, steps steady.
"I know I'm not who you need," Julian ended.
Lucien slowed, then stopped.
Julian looked down at his hands. "I've seen it. The way you look past me sometimes. Like I'm filling a space you are saving for someone else."
The wind moved lightly through the leaves overhead.
"But I've never wanted to be anyone else's son."
Lucien looked upward. A long glance into a crack into the trees overhead, where light spilled through in pale strands. His face hidden, his body frozen.
Julian stopped for a moment. Then continued walking alone, heading slowly back toward the car.
Lucien stayed where he was.
The wind passed through again. Above, birds scattered from the branches.
He stayed there, in the path, beneath the trees, and the light slowly faded around him.
***
Rain had begun to fall again by the time Lucien reached the car. It wasn't heavy—just enough to bead on the glass and draw faint, winding trails down the windows. The light outside had turned a dusky gray, the sky smeared with the last remnants of evening.
Julian sat in the backseat, his coat draped neatly over his knees, hands folded. He was still damp from the walk, but he didn't seem to mind. His eyes were on the glass, watching as the rain blurred the distant treetops.
Lucien slid into the seat beside him. The door closed with a soft hiss, sealing them into the quiet interior. The car's engine hummed to life—silent and smooth—as the driver tapped the console and pulled away from the curb.
Neither of them spoke.
Outside, the road darkened quickly, broken only by the faint shimmer of puddles beneath passing lamps.
Julian's reflection hovered in the window—clean lines, sharp cheekbones, golden eyes dimmed by thought. He looked. Content. Not entirely happy, but something close. Something settled. He didn't glance at Lucien, nor did he seem to expect anything.
Lucien sat with his hands loosely clasped in his lap.
He looked at Julian—not directly, but through the window.
And there—caught in the reflected space between raindrops and light—was a face.
Not Julian's.
For the briefest moment, the shape was wrong. The outline too slight. The hair darker, shorter. The eyes—not gold, but black. Familiar in a way that no science could fabricate. A girl's face.
The vision didn't last. It dissolved with the next wash of rain across the glass.
Lucien didn't blink.
Julian turned slightly, sensing movement. But when he looked at his father, Lucien was already facing forward, eyes distant.
The car continued on. Down winding roads lined with trees now lost to shadow.
In the stillness, the sound of rain tapping against the glass became everything.
Lucien sat in silence, beside the son who was not his, haunted by the glimpse of the one he can't forget.