The sky over Glen Haven Memorial Cemetery wept. A fine, cold mist clung to everything, blurring the world into a canvas of muted greys and desaturated greens. Kevin Lin stood at the edge of the open grave, his hands numb in the pockets of his one good suit—a charcoal wool blend that was now soaked through at the shoulders.
Raindrops beaded on the smooth black surface of the twin caskets below. His father's. His mother's. It still felt unreal, a glitch in the matrix of his life. One moment they were driving home from a rare, celebratory dinner for his father's promotion. The next, the police were at his dorm room door, their somber faces saying everything. A truck, a rain-slicked highway, an instant. Twenty years of life, erased in a breath.
The minister's voice droned on, a soft, comforting sound that meant nothing. Kevin's eyes traced the small gathering. A handful of his parents' colleagues from the engineering firm, their faces etched with genuine but fleeting sorrow. A few distant relatives who'd flown in, their presence feeling more like obligation than grief. No grandparents, no siblings. It was a lonely circle.
He felt detached, a ghost at his own life's pivotal tragedy. The grief was there, but it was a heavy, cold stone in his gut, not the sharp, weeping pain he'd expected. It was as if his emotions had been wrapped in layers of shock and disbelief, muffling the world and his own heart. He was just… empty.
The final prayer ended. People began to drift away, offering him awkward pats on the back, murmured platitudes that dissolved in the damp air. "So sorry for your loss." "They were wonderful people." "If you need anything…" They meant well, but each word felt like a stone adding to the weight in his chest.
Eventually, only he and the lawyer, Mr. Evans, remained. Evans was a man in his fifties with a perpetually tidy look, even in the rain. He stood patiently under a large black umbrella, waiting for Kevin to acknowledge the world again.
"Kevin," Mr. Evans said, his voice low and professional. "We should talk about the arrangements. At the office, when you're ready."
Kevin nodded, the movement stiff. Ready? He'd never be ready. "Now is fine," he heard himself say. The numbness was a shield. He wanted the practicalities over with.
Mr. Evans's office was the opposite of the cemetery—warm, dry, and sterile. The scent of lemon polish and old paper filled the air. Kevin sat in a plush leather chair that felt too big for him, watching as Evans laid out a thin folder on the polished mahogany desk.
"Your parents were good people, Kevin. Prudent, hardworking," Evans began, adjusting his glasses. "But they were not… wealthy. Their life was built on stability, not accumulation."
He opened the folder. "Their life insurance was a basic policy through work. After the funeral expenses, which were… substantial… it leaves approximately eighty-three thousand dollars."
Eighty-three thousand. A number. For two lives, for his future.
"There is the house," Evans continued. "The mortgage is nearly paid off, but the property taxes are due in two months. It's in a modest neighborhood. The market value, as-is, is perhaps four hundred thousand."
Kevin's mind, dulled by grief, tried to do the math. It sounded like a lot. Half a million dollars. But then Evans kept talking.
"There are outstanding car payments, the final medical bills from the emergency room, credit card balances they carried from your last semester's tuition…" Evans listed them off, his pen tapping each line item. "After settling all debts and accounting for the probate fees and my services, the liquid assets available to you will be in the range of… eight to ten thousand dollars. The house is an asset, but it is not income. You would need to sell it to access the equity."
The final number hung in the air: $8,000. And a house full of memories he couldn't bear to walk into. This was his inheritance. This was the foundation upon which his future—his studies, his rent, his life—was supposed to be built. A cold panic, sharper than the grief, began to seep through the numbness. He was alone, and he was broke.
"Your parents' retirement accounts were minimal," Evans added softly, perhaps seeing the color drain from Kevin's face. "They invested everything in you, Kevin. Your education was their priority."
The words were meant to comfort, but they felt like a sentence. The weight of their sacrifice, now coupled with its apparent futility, crushed down on him. What was the point of his business degree now? To manage his own precipitous descent into financial ruin?
"What do I do?" Kevin asked, his voice a dry whisper.
"The immediate practicalities," Evans said, sliding a business card across the desk. It was for a real estate agent. "I recommend listing the house quickly. The market is decent. For yourself… the university has a grief counseling service. And there may be options for a hardship withdrawal or a leave of absence."
A leave of absence. From the very education they'd died supporting. The irony was a bitter taste in his mouth.
The house was quiet. Not a peaceful quiet, but the deafening silence of absence. It still smelled like his mother's ginger tea and his father's wood polish. Their coats still hung by the door. It was a museum of a life that had ended mid-sentence.
Kevin couldn't sleep. He wandered from room to room, a stranger in his own home. In his father's small study, he stopped. The desk was meticulously organized, a habit of an engineer's mind. Kevin had avoided this room. Now, drawn by a morbid need to feel closer to him, he sat in the worn leather chair.
He opened the top drawer. Pens, paperclips, a calculator. The middle drawer held files—tax returns, appliance manuals. The bottom drawer was heavier. Inside were a few framed photos—his parents' wedding, Kevin's graduation from high school—and a small, unmarked wooden box.
His heart hammered against his ribs. He lifted the box. It was simple, unfinished wood, no lock. He opened it.
Inside, nestled on a bed of faded blue velvet, was a pocket watch.
He had never seen it before. It wasn't his father's style; the man had worn a reliable, digital sports watch for decades. This was an antique. The case was tarnished brass, etched with intricate, swirling patterns that seemed vaguely floral, vaguely geometric. It was cold to the touch, unnaturally so, as if it had been sitting in a freezer. There was no brand name, no inscription. It felt heavy, dense.
Frowning, Kevin picked it up. The metal seemed to hum against his skin, a vibration so faint he thought it might be his own trembling. He pressed the crown. The lid sprung open with a soft, precise click.
The face was pristine, porcelain white with bold, black Roman numerals. The hands—slim, elegant arrows of blued steel—were perfectly still. They pointed at XII and IV. 4:00. Or maybe 8:00? It was impossible to tell. The watch wasn't running.
He stared at it, a strange object in a world that had lost all meaning. Was it a family heirloom his father never mentioned? A gift? A found object? Its presence felt incongruous, a puzzle piece from a different picture.
As he sat there in the silent study, the rain began again outside, tapping against the windowpane. The only light came from a small desk lamp, casting long, distorted shadows. He closed the watch lid, the click echoing in the quiet room. The cold from the metal seeped into his palm, a constant, strange sensation.
For no reason he could name, he didn't put it back in the box. He slipped the watch into the pocket of his damp suit trousers. The weight of it was a tangible anchor in a day—a life—that felt increasingly untethered and unreal. It was a mystery, and right now, it was the only thing he had that didn't come with a bill, a debt, or a crushing memory of loss.
He was a twenty-year-old orphan with eight thousand dollars to his name, sitting in a house he'd have to sell, holding a cold, dead watch that felt, against all logic, like the only solid thing left in the universe.
He had no idea that the stillness was an illusion. That the watch was not dead, but dormant. And that at the precise moment his grief had hollowed him out, creating a void where hope and future had been, it had found him—a perfectly empty vessel, ready to be filled with a very different, and far more dangerous, kind of purpose.
The game was already loading. The player was in position. All it needed was to power on.