Three days had passed since Victoire rushed his parents to the hospital.
Three long days filled with hope, silent prayers, and endless waiting in the sterile corridors.
He hadn't slept. He barely ate. He stayed by their side, holding their hands, humming quietly—hoping that maybe, just maybe, his voice could keep them alive a little longer.
But on that cold Wednesday morning, everything crumbled.
— "Victoire..." an older nurse said softly as she approached him.
Her eyes were filled with sympathy. Her tone was gentle. But Victoire already knew.
He slowly looked up at her, his eyes red and empty.
— "No..." he whispered.
— "No, please… don't say it."
— "They passed peacefully… together. They fought till the end."
The words cut through his chest. He stood up suddenly, pushing past her, running to the room.
Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe they were just sleeping.
But the moment he stepped inside, he knew.
The silence was too heavy. Their faces too still.
They looked peaceful. Almost like they were resting.
Almost.
He dropped to the floor, clutching his stomach, shaking with silent sobs.
— "Why... why did you leave me?" he cried.
— "You promised you'd stay a little longer…"
---
A week later, grey clouds loomed over the small cemetery. Rain fell gently, like the sky itself mourned with him.
Victoire stood in front of the two coffins, dressed in black, unmoving. His eyes were hollow. He hadn't spoken much since that day. His friends stood by his side—Daniella, Andréa, and Ryder—all dressed in dark colors, silent and heartbroken.
Daniella reached out first, resting a hand on his shoulder.
— "We're here, Vic... we won't leave you."
— "You're not alone," Andréa added, her voice shaking.
Ryder, usually full of confidence, kept his head lowered.
— "I wish I could've helped them... I wish they'd stayed."
The priest said a few words. Then the coffins were slowly lowered into the ground.
Victoire stepped forward, dropping a rose on each. His hands trembled.
— "You were everything to me…" he whispered.
— "I promise I'll keep going. For you."
But inside, he was broken.
---
That afternoon, the four friends returned to Victoire's house. The living room was still full of flowers and condolence cards. The silence was crushing.
Victoire sat on the couch, staring blankly at the walls. He glanced at the pictures of his parents. Then closed his eyes.
— "Everything hurts. This house. The silence. Their smell… it's still here."
— "You can stay at my place if you want," Daniella offered softly.
— "Mine too. We have space," Andréa added.
— "And my parents will deal with it. I don't care anymore," Ryder said.
Victoire looked up at them, touched by their kindness.
— "Thank you… but I need to stay here for a while. Even if it hurts. I'm afraid I'll forget them if I leave."
Silence followed. Then Victoire asked:
— "Do your parents know you're here?"
They exchanged a guilty look.
— "Yeah…" Daniella answered.
— "But they didn't want us to come. They think… you're a bad influence."
— "They say you'll drag us down," Andréa whispered, ashamed.
— "My dad was furious I came," Ryder said.
— "But I don't care. I make my own choices."
Victoire lowered his head, hiding the hurt.
— "Even now… after I lost everything… they still hate me?"
— "You're not what they think, Vic," Daniella said, grabbing his hand.
— "You're so much more."
---
That night, Victoire was alone again.
He wandered through the house. Every room echoed with memories.
He walked into his parents' bedroom and lay on their bed, crying quietly.
He felt empty. Abandoned.
Unwanted.
But deep within, something still burned.
Music.
The next morning, he rose early, walked to the room where he and his friends used to practice, and picked up his old notebook. He began to write—page after page.
Pain.
Loss.
Love.
Hope.
> "I will rise from the silence,
I will scream through the pain,
You left me in darkness,
But I'm not done with my flame."
---
That Saturday, with rain falling again, he called his friends.
— "Meet me at the kiosk. I've got something to sing."
They didn't ask questions. Within the hour, they were all there.
Victoire stood in the center, soaked, tired—but with fire in his voice.
— "I wrote a song. For them. For me. For us."
And he started singing. His voice cracked at first, but grew stronger.
Every word was a wound.
Every note, a tear.
Slowly, Daniella, Andréa, and Ryder joined him, harmonizing.
Their voices echoed through the empty streets.
They were four broken hearts, but one united soul.
And even if the world rejected Victoire, misunderstood him, or looked down on him…
They knew. They understood.
Music was their bond.
Their escape.
Their hope.
And that day, it saved them.