"H-Hewo..? Cowen..?", my mother's frail voice—an amalgamation of surprise and concern—resonates in my ear through the call, and I draw in a sharp, wavering breath.
Dark clouds roll in, blanketing the sky in a foreboding shade of gray. An icy wind whips through the graveyard reserved for platinum hunters, rustling the leaves. It carries an air of sorrow that settles heavily over the small crowd of hunters dressed in black mourning clothes. They stand in silence, their faces etched with grief and stoic determination, while I remain in the back with Marcus, unnoticed and uninvited.
"Mom..."
Four freshly made graves lay before us, the soil still raw and disturbed. Beside them, an official from the headquarters stands, his expression a blend of stern duty and heartfelt sorrow. "Today, we've gathered to honor the memory of our fallen members.", his voice, steady yet tinged with emotion, cuts through the suffocating hush as he begins to speak.
"Cowen..? What's whong?", she asks, her worry palpable eve though our last conversation ended on a sour note nearly a decade ago.
"The families of these brave hunters are here to mourn their sons, brothers, husbands, father, taken from them too soon by the perils of our duty. We share in your grief, knowing that the loss you bear is immeasurable."
Clutching onto the fabric of my shirt, I release a trembling exhale, "Thank you... I-I...know I never said it before...and it didn't always seem that way from how I acted. I know I...I was distant, maybe even resentful at times. There were moments when you probably felt I regretted having you in my life." Tears threaten to choke me, but I force the words out, my grip on the phone tightening, "But that's not true. I can't imagine what our lives...would be like if you hadn't returned. Dad and I would've broken down without you...s-so...thank you... I love you...so so much...and I'm sorry for whenever I made you feel unappreciated or unloved."
He pauses, his gaze sweeping over the crowd, meeting the eyes of parents, siblings, and friends who have come to say their final goodbyes. "These young men served with courage and unwavering dedication. They faced the darkness so that others could live in the light. Their sacrifice is a testament to their unwavering commitment to the mission that binds us all."
"My deah deah boy... I undehstand what you felt back then and...I'm sohhy foh putting you thwough it. You've gwown into such an incwedible young man... I love you moe than wohds can expwess, and I'm so...so pwoud of you."
As the official speaks, my eyes drift across the assembled people. Their faces are set in stone, eyes dry and vacant. No tears are shed, no outward display of sorrow. It's as if they're incapable of feeling the pain to that extent, a stark contrast to the torrent of emotions I'm carrying within me. Their lack of visible mourning creates a growing sense of detachment inside me. It's as though they've resigned themselves to the inevitability of such losses, their sorrow buried deep beneath layers and layers of numb acceptance.
"Rogerdale Headquarters is proud of their service. Proud of the strength and the bravery they displayed. We honor their memory by continuing the fight they so valiantly waged.", the official continues, gesturing to the freshly dug graves, each marked with a simple headstone, drawing my attention back to them.
I know—and so do they—that, like most graves in this cemetery, these four are empty. The bodies of hunters are rarely recovered intact; the dangers we face leave little behind. From what I've heard, only a couple of limbs have been discovered this time, and out of consideration for the families, the authorities chose not to identify the remains. It's the tags that identified the chunks of flesh left behind, and it's these tags that now serve as the only tangible connection to the fallen.
