Isaac sat in the quiet of his room, staring blankly at the framed photograph placed on the table in front of him. A single white lily lay beside it, wilting slowly—just like the warmth that used to fill his chest.
The picture was from the funeral—Lucas, captured mid-smile in a photo he used to hate. "It's too cheesy," he had complained once. But Isaac had always loved it. It showed a rare softness on Lucas's usually stern face, a vulnerability that only Isaac ever got to see. Now, it was all he had left.
He reached out and brushed his fingers against the glass, as if he could still feel Lucas's warmth through it.
A lump formed in his throat, tightening unbearably.
"I thought I'd have more time," Isaac whispered.
The memories came in a flood—uninvited but relentless.
