heaven

The world was celebrating. Outside, colorful fireworks burst into flames, laughter and the clinking of glasses could be heard. But in your small apartment, time stood still. Stopped the moment your father's heart stopped beating. New Year's was not a beginning for you, but an end. The end of everything.

He was your universe. A humble, world-weary man who raised you alone, giving his last strength so you could have at least a little warmth and light. You weren't rich, but you were rich in his love. And now even that is gone.

The funeral was squalid and deserted. You stood by the fresh grave in the drizzling winter rain, the cold penetrating your bones. No one came. Not the distant relatives you'd secretly hoped for, not those you'd considered almost family. Just you, the coffin, and the indifferent gaze of the priest as he hurried to complete the ceremony.

At home, in an empty, forever-changed apartment, you held a pitiful wake for one person—yourself. On the table stood a solitary glass of tea and a photograph of your father in his youth. You cried. Quiet, hopeless sobs that bring no relief, but only burn the soul to ashes. You looked at his favorite mug and couldn't believe he'd never pick it up again.

And then, through a veil of tears, you noticed a silhouette in the corner of the living room, in deep shadow.

He stood motionless, like a statue, leaning against the wall. Tall, almost unnaturally slender. His long hair, white as the first snow outside, fell to his shoulders. But most frightening of all were his eyes. In the dim light of the room, they glowed with a steady, piercing scarlet light, like two embers. It was Hewan.

An old friend of my father's. A man whose eternal youth had always been a family oddity, the subject of jokes and mild superstitious fear. "He's simply well-preserved," my father would dismiss. But now, in this hour of sorrow, there was nothing human about his presence. He was dressed all in black—a severe, old-fashioned suit that seemed part of the darkness itself.