Grivestone City
8:00 AM
Wednesday
Cries filled the chapel, women and men alike, their voices echoing through the vast hall. Hundreds upon hundreds of people sat on long wooden benches, all dressed in black, heads bowed, faces lined with worry and furrowed brows. At the corners, cameras shone brightly, streaming live every moment. The transparent roof above let in glorious sunlight, illuminating the space with a soft, ethereal glow.
In the front row sat Ross, dressed in a black suit that looked almost too good for the occasion, giving the impression it had not been planned for a funeral. His face lacked its usual brightness, and who could blame him? The man who had made him who he was—his father—had just died, without sickness, without old age. He had simply… fallen asleep and not woken up. That alone stung his heart, leaving him with no target for blame, nothing to explain the pain that pierced through him.
Next to him sat his younger sister, Marie Mutt. She wore black shades, a ponytail that made her look serious sleek against her back. On the surface, she seemed unaffected, as if her lawyerly composure had shielded her. But inside, she was breaking apart, melting piece by piece. To her right, their mother, Olivia Mutt,sobbed uncontrollably, mucus running from her nose, body trembling with exhaustion from a night of grief. Beside her, a woman gently touched her shoulder, trying in vain to calm her.
In front of them rested a priceless white casket on a tall stand, gold handles gleaming, adorned with flowers that seemed almost celebratory. The setting spoke volumes: the man who lay inside had been immensely wealthy. Behind the casket stood a glass podium, microphone raised for anyone who wished to speak. Black letters were embedded on its front:
GRINSTONE COMMUNITY CHURCH
The font was inviting, elegant, commanding respect.
"I welcome you, ladies and gentlemen, to this funeral ceremony," said a man in a black pastor's robe, the white collar stark against the dark fabric. His hands even though one was robotic , moved as he spoke, a gesture meant to justify his words, yet his eyes were clouded with tears.
"Elod Mutt was a good man, faithful, giving, a beacon of hope. Each and every one of us has a story about him, about how he helped in ways both large and small. Using his tech companies he gave us a second chance at life.But as they say, good things don't last. The Father in Heaven has taken him back, so that he may rest."
"Don't leave me!!"
Ross's mother cried, stammering, collapsing from the chair. The woman tried to hold her, though it was futile. She had lost something irretrievable—a loving husband with whom she had built her life. They had met as orphans in a Catholic school: young, naïve, and poor. Despite rules and disapproval, they fell in love.
Their story had been one of perseverance. From the day Elod was falsely accused of stealing the nun's lunch and chased from school, to the countless hours he spent selling sweets to survive, to the moment they married—every memory screamed of devotion. They had faced the world together, proving the definition of "for better or worse."
"Without further ado, may I request the presence of Ross Mutt, the first son of the deceased, to make a speech!"
The pastor descended from the altar, moving with the deliberate grace only a man of the cloth could master. Ross rose, adjusting his expression to appear confident in front of the gathered crowd.
"That's his son!"
"Unbelievable!"
"He looks just like his father!"
"Is he married?"
Murmurs floated through the audience as eyes followed him to the podium. Unlike his sister, he was not used to attention. An architect could not compete with the fame of a lawyer, and he knew it.
Hhuhu!
He cleared his throat, gripping the white paper handed to him by the family secretary. Speaking to a large audience was never his forte, though his words carried weight when spoken. His eyes flickered nervously across the silent crowd.
"Tsk!" he muttered internally, his eyes indecisive for some milliseconds but at the end of it he pushed the speech away.
"Ahm…"
All eyes were on him, some curious, some eager to hear him, others waiting to see him falter, envious of his poise and appearance.
His mother and sister watched with admiration. Every step, every motion mirrored the shadow of the man he had lost.
"I came here with a speech prepared," he began, voice steady, "but I don't think the words written here truly express what I feel. So I will speak from my heart."
Gasps of surprise rippled through the crowd. The media-shy young man was suddenly commanding attention.
"My dad had a quote he liked: 'If you want to know who a man is, go look at his loved ones—that will tell you everything you need to know.' He worked tirelessly, through sleepless nights, all for one goal: to make us happy. If you want to know who Elod Mutt was, look at us. His first child is an architect, his daughter a famous lawyer, and his loving wife owns a hospital. May the very air I breath bare me witness, I promise you this, Dad: your legacy, stories of who you were will never die. I will make sure of it!"
His eyes shaked, veins buldging ,tears threatened to spill as he held back his emotions, but the weight of his words resonated through the chapel.
Some shaked their heads in agreement others given even a more reason to continue crying, but one thing was common the words had touched them so much.
"Thank you!"
He descended from the podium.
Clap! Clap! Clap!
The sound was thunderous, almost surreal. For a moment, the funeral felt less like mourning and more like a celebration of life. Many had already started to adore, others considering him as apotential political figure, something that Ross didn't seem to have roaming in his mind.
As he walked back to his seat, a familiar figure appeared at the end of the chapel—a man in a tuxedo and white bowtie, the family's butler. He waved, catching Ross's attention.
Skillfully, Ross turned, subtly altering his course as if he had never intended to sit where he was. Murmurs of encouragement followed him, words meant to comfort at an unexpected moment.
The pastor, as the master of ceremony returned to the podium.
"Thank you for that wonderful speech, ladies and gentlemen! Let's give him another round of applause!"
Claps echoed again. Louder this time .
"Nice speech, Young Master," the butler said admiringly, his British accent evident.
"Thanks, Lanward," Ross replied quietly. "Where have you been? Didn't see you at the house?"
"I am deeply sorry, Young Master," Lanward said. "I was busy sorting out some company matters."
Ross raised an eyebrow. "What matters?"
"Aah… Young Master," Lanward began cautiously, "I planned to tell you this after the funeral… but all your father's companies have been taken away."