Amelia lies in Rose Rise Cemetery—about forty minutes away by metro and bus.
With a park right beside it, the place stays lively on weekends.
Kids run along the paths. Couples stroll as if it’s any other park.
It hardly feels like a cemetery at all—more like a sightseeing spot.
From their old house, it had been close enough to feel local.
When Amelia was still alive, they even used to come here as a family, for picnics.
—And yet.
Crys rested his head against the bus window, watching the city smear into a blur.
The bus had been nearly full at the first stop.
But by the time it reached the familiar stretch, most of the passengers were older women.
Even people who looked unmistakably elderly were coming here to mourn someone.
Crys couldn’t stand it. When they reached his stop, he pressed the button a little too hard.
Five minutes down Rosa Street, Rose Rise came into view.
As he walked, two feelings sat side by side:
the lonely ache of missing his mother—Amelia—
and something like relief, small but real.
Here, he didn’t have to tense up at the thought of running into someone from school.
He didn’t have to dodge Cillian and his suffocating concern.
Whenever he wanted to go somewhere no one knew him,
Crys came here.
He passed the small church just inside the gate, then followed the winding path with old gravestones at his side.
Eventually, the space opened up into a newer section of the cemetery.
Rows of identical markers stretched far ahead.
He found the grave marker he used as a landmark—its design slightly different—
walked a little farther, then turned onto a narrower path.
Crys kept his eyes fixed on a single point as he walked.
Here, memory replayed itself without asking permission.
Cillian clinging to the stone, crying until there was nothing left.
Himself, numb, unable to accept that Amelia was gone.
People murmuring in low, pitying voices before leaving—one by one.
Even when it was only the two of them left,
he still couldn’t pull himself away from the grave where Amelia slept.
That version of him—
was still here.
Amelia Reed
December 20, 2020
Ad CAELUM
A bouquet of lilies sat before the stone, tied with a lace ribbon.
Cillian had left it here.
Crys knew it—on weekends, Cillian came here before he even woke up.
He understood grief.
But that didn’t mean it erased everything else.
Still… in a world where the dead are often forgotten,
white flowers were always here, without fail—that much, Crys admitted—just a little.
White.
The same color as the clothes Amelia used to like wearing.
Crys didn’t talk to the grave.
Amelia lay beneath it.
But she wouldn’t answer.
She wouldn’t listen.
And yet—
when he came here, he felt as if he could sense her.
Not ghosts. Not some supernatural bond.
Just this:
the last place he’d seen Amelia was here.
That was all.
Standing there, Crys stared at the epitaph.
As always, he traced it with his eyes.
Top to bottom.
Again, and again.
As if,
if he followed the letters closely enough,
something might come back.
He’d done it at least twenty times.
Halfway through, his eyes widened.
Ad CAELUM
He’d seen it too many times.
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That was why it hadn’t registered at first.
On Amelia’s grave—
a line from the poem he’d been assigned was carved.
Ad CAELUM.
“To reach the heights.”
“…Why.”
Crys grabbed his head.
Had coming here today really been a coincidence?
Or had some part of him remembered,
and pushed him here without him noticing?
“Mom… did you call me?”
The cold stone didn’t answer.
He knew that.
Even so—
the words slipped out.
It wasn’t like he believed those superstitions—
that if you spoke to the dead, the wind would blow,
or a bell would ring.
It was just—
Amelia was “here,”
and yet she would never speak back again.
That fact alone
was something he still couldn’t accept, no matter how much time passed.
I should go home.
He turned with that thought—
and stopped.
The cemetery, so close to closing, had almost no one in it.
And yet.
He hadn’t heard a single footstep.
But somehow—
Right behind Crys stood a middle-aged man holding a bouquet of purple flowers.
Hair the color of sunlight.
A beard to match.
An air of quiet gentleness.
Even Crys, who didn’t know much about clothes, could tell the suit was expensive.
When their eyes met,
the man removed his hat and smiled warmly.
—Did he hear me talking to nothing?
—Did he think I’m some kind of freak…?
Heat rushed into Crys’s cheeks.
Without even greeting him,
he left as if fleeing.
Near the exit, people returning from the park crowded the path, and the bus toward the station was packed.
The driver was rough with the brakes.
The bus would lurch forward, then keep accelerating.
The bus rocked side to side,
and the person beside him clicked their tongue.
—It’s not my fault.
He didn’t have the nerve to say it out loud.
Restless, unable to stand it,
Crys hit the stop button—
even though the transfer station was still far.
The Metro was just as crowded with people heading back out to the suburbs,
but Crys managed to carve out a space just big enough for one person.
Staring out at the window as the train slid through dark tunnels,
everything that had bothered him started to feel stupidly small.
As he drifted,
the man from the cemetery crossed his mind again.
Well-dressed. Refined.
Crys hadn’t seen relatives in years, but no one like that came to mind.
If Crys didn’t know him,
maybe he’d been a coworker.
Or someone from Amelia’s hobbies.
Someone who would still visit, even after four years.
Maybe they’d been close.
Maybe he’d come to the funeral, too.
Crys tried to remember the faces there.
Grandma Linda.
Aunt Jessica.
Uncle Christopher.
His cousins, Emma and Ella.
Grandpa Robert.
Grandma Patricia.
Uncle Justin.
Aunt Ashley…
There had been dozens more, apparently.
But he couldn’t remember.
Of course he couldn’t.
His mother’s death had filled his entire chest back then—
there hadn’t been room for anything else.
Even so,
Crys couldn’t shake the feeling
that he’d seen that well-dressed man somewhere.
When he reached the nearest station, Crys slipped into his usual burger place.
He checked his smartwatch.
Just past five.
—About when Cillian would’ve started cooking.
And he still didn’t get it—why it pissed him off.
That even this was part of it.
Crys chewed, turning cold fries into mush.
It had been four years since the move.
And Cillian hadn’t gotten tired of it once.
Crys avoided him on purpose—openly—and he still acted like dinner could fix things.
The nerve.
When he needed help the most,
he was alone.
And now, after he’d dragged himself back on his own,
Cillian wanted to play happy family?
—Yeah, no.
The moment Crys graduated, he’d be gone.
Far enough that “seeing him again” wouldn’t even be a question.
He downed the soda—ice melted, flat—and crushed the paper cup in his fist.
Then he went home, still riding that heat.
He didn’t ease the door open quietly.
He didn’t bother trying not to be noticed.
He swung it wide, loud enough to echo.
“I’m not eating dinner!”
His voice filled the entry hall.
He went straight upstairs.
Then, on the back of his poetry assignment printout, he scrawled in huge letters:
DON’T TALK TO ME
NO KNOCKING
He taped it to his door.
Satisfied, he nodded once.
Feeling strangely refreshed, he changed into loungewear, dropped into his chair, and booted up his PC.
No TT today.
Maybe he’d mess around with the guys he’d met before.
He sent his avatar, Thistle, into the lobby.
True World Origins—its center.
The castle’s great hall was packed as always: meetups, matchmaking waits, chatter.
Groups of two to five huddled together.
Ten-player squads flooded the chat with noise.
Crys wasn’t good with people.
But in a game, talking was easier.
…Still, he didn’t feel like forcing himself into some light little circle.
As he hesitated, two players—clearly high-tier gear, not like the rest—called out to him.
【Snacc: AD!! been a minute!!】
【Noobz: Solo today?】
【Ad: yeah】
【Ad: if you’re down, carry me lol】
【Snacc: LOL as if!!】
【Noobz: Would love to learn from you】
【Ad: Hunt or BR?】
【Noobz: Mats are fine, so BR】
【Ad: then wanna grab a few more?】
BR was max eleven. Seven squads total.
More bodies meant safer—at least, it should’ve been.
But Snacc and Noobz looked at each other and did this synchronized good grief emote.
【Snacc: With YOU here??】
【Ad: aight. let’s go】
They queued.
A few seconds of matching.
The gate-opening sequence.
All three of them stepped out together.
—Lab Field, huh.
Crys ran for Academia—the best stronghold.
Of course everyone else had the same idea.
Which meant: you could thin them out on the way.
One squad ran alongside.
Crys took them out. Alone.
As the enemies blinked out of the field, he clicked his tongue.
—There it is again. That habit.
【Ad: sry. i went solo】
【Snacc: PLEASE do whatever you want I’m just watching that aim】
【Noobz: I can’t do tracking like you】
【Noobz: How do you do it?】
【Ad: anchor with your arm. like this】
Use your elbow as a pivot.
Move the whole mouse, smooth.
Don’t “stop” the crosshair—slide it across the target and fire.
【Snacc: BRO WE CAN’T SEE YOUR ARM】
【Snacc: STREAM IT!!】
【Ad: i’m not streamer material】
【Ad: go farm views off MrPerfect’s perfect vids】
—You don’t want me.
You want “Ad.” The thing on the screen.
Time passed. The zone tightened.
Only the real players were left.
Crys adjusted his position, ready to hunt—
when a door opened above.
Reflex.
His barrel snapped forward.
The next second, the door in front of them blew open and a storm of SMG rounds poured in.
Snacc and Noobz dodged and returned fire instantly.
Thistle—Crys—raised his sniper rifle, Hesperos, calm as ever.
One shot.
Then another—higher.
That was the signal.
The enemy squad flooded in.
Academia turned into a spark-filled battlefield.
Even in the chaos, Crys’s shots never missed.
Flat. Precise.
Enemies vanished one after another.
When the last one dropped, the screen flashed:
LAST SURVIVOR
And they were back in the lobby.
【Snacc: GGSSSS】
【Snacc: I didn’t even have time to watch you at the end】
【Noobz: I stopped caring about kills early and just watched】
【Noobz: You killed literally everyone you saw】
【Snacc: no way. i thought I got at least one】
【Ad: team game. couldn’t do it without you two】
【Ad: gg】
【Snacc: MAN i really idolize you】
【Snacc: not even just skill, you’re actually nice too】
【Snacc: bet your IRL is cracked】
【Snacc: i’ll never win】
If TT were here—kind, as always—he’d probably say something like that.
So yeah.
Of course they’d think it.
Crys smiled to himself.
And then his chest stung—sharp, small.
【Ad: what next?】
He taught them gun handling in BR.
Showed them clean dragon routes in the open world.
Somewhere in there, the date flipped.
After he watched them log out, Crys leaned back hard in his chair and exhaled.
—It was fun.
But just as much,
it drained him.
He liked game friends.
But what they liked was Ad—the ranked Ad.
Not him.
If he said in real life, I’m Ad, nobody would believe it.
Being praised in-game didn’t feel bad.
But when he returned to reality—
the recoil hit.
And he’d feel pathetic.
Crys dove onto his bed like he was fleeing himself.
Soft fabric.
His own breathing.
The smell of cooking rising from downstairs.
He’d only meant to rest his head for a second—
but sleep rushed in, heavy.
No shower.
Lights still on.
Still logged in—avatar idle in the lobby.
None of it mattered anymore.
He didn’t fight it.
He closed his eyes.
And when he noticed, he was falling—endlessly—through that familiar floating sensation.
The start of the usual dream.
—God, not this again.
Even thinking that, he didn’t wake himself.
Because the darkness was gentle.
Like water.
Like it would take him exactly as he was.
Down.
Down.
Deeper, deeper…
