The house on the hill slept like a hunched animal beneath the city lights. Inside, a single lamp bled a small circle of gold across the floor of the underground chamber; the rest of the room was soft shadow. All night they had kept watch around Ruko's bed — broken cups, a half-knotted blanket, and the steady mechanical hum of Sam's devices marking the hours. By the third watch, the hum had become a lullaby of wires.
Amari woke to silence that felt heavier than any shout. Everyone had fallen asleep at Grandpa's side except him. He reached out before he thought and touched Ruko's hand. It was cool and still. For a moment his mind refused to shape the truth; then the breath that had been a thin thread the day before had stilled like a wind gone out.
The sound that came from Amari was small and private — a sound that belonged to the space between a gasp and a full cry. He pressed his forehead against Ruko's palm and let the tears fall. The house smelled of the antiseptic from the chamber, of yesterday's breakfast long gone cold, and of the city rain that had begun to patter the windows outside.
His mother woke first, opening her eyes like a tide pulling back and then rushing forward. She gathered Amari to her in a soft, shaking hold. "He's in a better place now," she whispered, voice thin, smoothing his hair as if that could mend what the day had taken.
His father came quickly after, the lines around his mouth deeper in the lamplight. Daniel's sob tore the quiet apart; he stumbled, half-dressed, eyes raw. "I wish this wasn't true," Daniel breathed, the words small and fierce. They moved like ghosts through the room.
After the brief, private grief, the family did what they always did — they made ceremony of what needed doing. They carried Ruko gently from the chamber into the cool night air and set him in the backyard beneath the hill house where the city lights watched like distant stars. The ground smelled of turned earth and rain. The casket was plain wood, warm under their hands; even grief could not make them gentle enough.
Before lowering him into the ground they spoke.
Amari's father stepped forward first, his voice catching and then folding into steadiness. "Ruko was a strong man," he said. "He stood by me through everything. He was my brother in all but blood. May his spirit rest." The words were simple, true — a low bell struck in the chest of each listener.
Daniel went next, voice raw: "He made us laugh when we were broken. He fed us. He taught me how to stand." He swallowed the rest and looked at Amari like a brother offering a shield.
When it was Amari's turn he cleared his throat, the city's distant hum like a second chorus. "For the short time I knew him," he said, "I saw how brave he was — quietly brave. He made me want to be better. I don't know how he looks now, but I think he's watching and telling us to keep pushing. That…that's the best gift he could give." The last words stuck like a promise.
They lowered the box, placed flowers on top — bright, living things against the dark soil — and packed the earth until the sound of shovels was all that filled the space between heartbeats.
After, as the rain eased, Amari went to Daniel and said low, fierce, and certain, "I don't care if I'm too weak. We leave tomorrow. We end this."
Daniel's eyes sharpened with the same hungry resolve. "Okay," he said, and his hand found Amari's. They told their parents, who wanted to come and bury themselves in risk, but the boys were stubborn. "You don't need to break Grandpa's wish," Amari said. "Stay. Keep the home. Keep the life here."
His mother's face folded with worry, but she nodded. "Please be careful," she whispered, voice breaking. "I can't lose you both."
"We'll be careful," Daniel said. He sounded like he believed it.
That night the house felt hollow and full at once — hollow where a life had ended, full with vows that would not let them sleep. The city below kept its distant, indifferent chatter. Above, on the hill, the brothers closed their eyes and let the promise settle into them like a new bone. The day had ended; tomorrow, they would begin.