Melody was cleaning an old violin when he died. Or was he born dead? She couldn't remember. She never asked.
Now when she thinks about it, she marvels at how theatrical it all was; the violent, almost vengeful downpour, the howling winds, the cracks in the ceiling, how she thought that the window glass would break, that the door will come off its hinges.
That day, there was no 'next morning'. Time melted and merged, and only moved forward when the screaming from the closed room stopped. Only then did slivers of light creep through the trees, but it did not feel like 'next morning'.
A still bundle, a somber face, a crying one, five silent children.
He was buried far away. You don't bury the dead close you don't wander outside the house and see a gravestone.
That day, Melody dug a grave for the first time.
She was fourteen and uncertain of her feelings as her father lowered down the tiny corpse and tucked it gently in the soil. There was no one but the two of them, and the forest seemed to extend forever.
He offered her two options, and since he brought her - and only her - with him for this task, she could not decline. Play the flute, or cover the hole.
Melody picked the shovel.
The middle child is always the least fortunate. And she should have felt special, but she didn't. Singled out for burial duty, it felt like a burden.
As her father played his flute, a recognizable song, she saw dirt pile up. Her hands were moving rhythmically, attempting, despite the situation, to match the flow of the music. It was almost like an instinct. She didn't tell him he missed a few notes, but didn't want to finish before the mourning song stops. For the ritual to end perfectly, the flute must have the final say.
As the cold layer of soil thickened, Melody sensed fear crawl in her insides. With shaky hands, she continued working.
Her father, out of breath, messed up again.
She was glad that no longer could she see any part of the gray cloth under the dirt. There's no face in her mind, she did not see it so there's no memory of it.
And it was odd, this lack of sadness.
It dawned on her that her father had chosen her because she was not heartbroken. Neither was he. They can move on they can always move on, he trusted her on that.
They finished together.
He looked at her and she knew then, that he too had wanted her to finish before him, but not for the same reasons. He was ashamed to look her in the eye. She carried his secret like he carried hers, but she was braver. He knew that, that's why he brought her with him, that's why she's here.
Melody couldn't tell him that she was scared, that death suddenly felt real and tangible, that he looked terrible; his eyes dark and ghastly, his long, deft fingers thinner, more fragile. The shadows under his eyes had grown darker, pulling down at his serene visage, so she couldn't tell him she was scared.
She took a step forward, and gently removed the delicate flute from his frozen fingers. Only his eyes moved, observing as she pierced the soil with the pointed end of the instrument.
"You're not going to play anymore."
Her back was to him, but she could sense his shoulders making the slightest movement.
"So you know." he said, swallowing a cough, his voice still a comfort always a comfort.
"You already knew I know."
He chuckled with a heaving chest she worried he would crumble. "I couldn't get it past you."
Melody turned to him. "I won't tell anyone."
Her father nodded. "I already knew that, too." he offered her a tender smile. "Are you afraid?"
"No." she lied.
"Then I can trust you to lay me here when it's all done with." he raised his head and looked around. "What a lovely place you've picked."