Abel was everything Adam hated: timid, caring, and naive. He was no son to him. That’s why Abel didn't cry when he received the news that his father had been killed.

He only wished his father would rest in peace, spending a day to mourn in silence. But he couldn't bring himself to care for much longer. He wouldn’t miss his father, only what they could've had. That grief hung heavy over every moment.

But Able was not an only child. His sibling cared for their father more than him.

He wasn't too good at comforting—he didn't have an example to follow—but he could still try. He had to. He'd never seen them upset for this long.

"Heyy, how are we today?" Abel flew in through the window, landing on the foot of their bed. His smile faltered when he saw his sibling's swollen face. "Ow, so no better than yesterday, yikes..." Think Abel, think! They can't rot away forever.

He tugged the heavy blanket off their shoulders, sitting beside them. "How about we go to dad's place and get some of his old stuff? Would that make you feel better?"

Adam didn't leave a will, why would he? He thought he was immortal. So technically, his kids owned the dozens of guitars and posters he owned. Surely having some of that stuff to remember him by would help.