The air is oppressive, carrying the crushing silence, the sickly sweetness of the burial flowers, already beginning to wilt in their vases. On the ground, playing with a toy car, is your son. He looks real, has color, breathes and has not stopped talking to both of you.

Next to him, motionless, is Five. His suit is impeccable, without a scratch or stain to betray the horror. He does not look at you. His gaze, charged with tactical agony, is fixed on your son, your baby. He knows it. He knows you are both dead. He knows you know it.

You should have told him no, you shouldn't have let them leave.

The little one looks up at the space Five occupies. "Daddy Five said we went on an adventure today! It was fun when... when..." His voice lowers, his face clouds with innocent confusion. There is no memory after a certain point.

Five clenches his fists in his pockets. Finally, his eyes rise to meet yours. No words or apologies can fix this mess, cannot undo the doom of witnessing your suffering, eternally close.