Chapter One

I never really knew him. In fact, I wasn't sure that I had even met him. All I knew was that one day Lyra was as happy as could be with him, and the next thing I knew, I saw his obituary in the newspaper. The only reason I recognized his picture at all was because Lyra had shown me once, and his name was vaguely familiar, if only because she now shared his surname.

So, was there any reason for me to show up at his wake? Not really. I hadn't even been invited to their wedding. Clearly I wasn't anyone all that important to them, and since I didn't know anything about him, it made no sense for me to go. But the moment I saw that last name in the newspaper—Lyra's last name—I couldn't stop myself.

Except, compared to the other gym leaders, I didn't really know Lyra all that well, either. But she wasn't just some girl who beat me, either. She had taken the role that I believed belonged to me, met the rainbow-hued Pokémon, so I respected her. Despite this, I didn't actually think that we were anything more than acquaintances. Friends would be a bit of a stretch.

Which, of course, gave me less of a reason to attend his wake. Strike one, I didn't know him, and strike two, I didn't really know Lyra. But there wasn't really a strike three to rule out the possibility of going, so I went, as if neither of my first two strikes against me didn't matter. They made these things public for a reason, didn't they?

And, the thing was, I knew death. No one understood it better than I did. Why else would I train ghost-types?

It would be hard for Lyra, and I knew how to cope with these things. My mom died from a long-term illness when I was just twelve, and my dad, unable to bear the pain of living without her, killed himself shortly after. Since I didn't have any siblings, I was left alone, an orphan who attended both of his parents' funerals within a two-month period. I stayed with a friend for a while before going off on my own to train with the Gastly I caught not too long after my parents died.

Yeah, I understood what Lyra was about to go through—what she felt now, what she would feel later. And it was the reason why I always went to the funerals or wakes for people who, even if I didn't know them well, I knew at all.

The day of the wake was gloomy, the perfect setting for a sad occasion. It always seemed too cruel to have a nice day on such a bitter one, when all we were all supposed to feel was grief. It had been sunny—absolutely beautiful, not a cloud in the sky—on the day of my dad's funeral, and everyone came up to me and told me that it couldn't have been a better day.

But there was a better day—a day when I woke up and he was still there, or a day when I walked down the hall from my bedroom to find breakfast already on the table, my parents laughing over the Sunday comics together.

I was happy that Lyra got a crappy day for her husband's wake—because it made every day that he had been alive seem all the brighter.

And the rain fell hard. When I stepped out of the car, tipping the driver a little bit extra for having to drive me in this weather, I looked up at the sky. The sheet of grey above us was not indicative of a storm that would pass soon; rather, it would be a day of continuous tears, the world mourning the death as if these things never happened.

I walked up the pathway towards the house, stepping in the puddles along the way, my suede shoes already soaked. I neglected to bring an umbrella, so by the time I made it inside, my hair was slick and stuck to my forehead, my normally-straight strands of hair curling up around my collar. My suit jacket weighed down on my shoulders, yet another thing to burden me.

"Well, if it isn't the Prince of Death himself."

When I turned around, a little awkwardly since there were too many people here and not quite enough room to move, and saw Whitney, I smiled. It was good to see a familiar face in a space of unfamiliar people, especially when the circumstances were not good. She had always been one of my favorite colleagues, in any case.

"Whitney," I greeted, and she nodded. In her black dress, a little too short for a wake, she really was quite beautiful. She didn't look particularly devastated by the loss, however, considering that her makeup was still perfect.

"So far, from what I can tell," she whispered, walking up to me and hooking her arm around mine, pulling me close to her and continuing her stroll, "most of the people here are Lyra's friends. Apparently her husband didn't have a very large group of friends—or possibly any. But she still hasn't even come down from upstairs yet, so everyone is just sort of walking around and eating the hors d'oeuvres." As if to prove this, she held up her plate and shoved a deviled egg into her mouth.

"Has anyone checked on her?" I wondered, thoughts of my father coming through the mist of my mind.

But I didn't need an answer to my question. The room became momentarily louder, and Whitney spun me around to face the entrance. Lyra, not quite as I remembered her, had finally made her appearance. No amount of makeup could hide the fact that she had been crying, but the mystery would remain how long she had been. Her eyes, swollen and red, were still watering even now, but she forced a smile as she walked into the room.

"Thanks for coming, everyone," she said, and she shook hands with everyone who rushed to her side. Whitney rolled her eyes beside me, but even she eventually left my side to go give Lyra her condolences.

I finally realized my third strike when Lyra had fought her way across the room, so scarred that she might as well be a veteran of war, and stopped in front of me. She stared at me for a moment, the smile that she had feigned for everyone else turned slowly into a grimace, before she burst into tears again. There were people who were immediately there for her, pulling her away from the crowd and shooting me dirty looks, and it was surprisingly painful that I couldn't be one of them, since I knew what that should mean.

But, in Whitney's words, I was the Prince of Death. Of course she would cry at the sight of me.

"Nice." Whitney shoved another deviled egg into her mouth as she found her way back over to me, dumping the plate on a side table with some other abandoned hors d'oeuvres. "So, Mr. Ghost-type man, you ever actually see any ghosts? Have you seen this guy walking around yet tonight? Or is that insensitive of me to say?"

It was indeed insensitive, but I didn't say anything. I had never seen a ghost in my life—at least, not a human ghost. I always thought that I might, considering the first Pokémon I ever caught was a ghost-type, but it never happened. Death, I determined, was final. There was only so much waiting you could do for the ones you loved to return.

"I don't even know what he really looks like. All I saw was the picture in the obituary," I settled on saying, and Whitney grinned.

"It's an open casket. Go find out," she said, pushing me forward.

I let her guide me for awhile, maneuvering me around the people in the crowd, until she stopped in front of the casket at the head of the room. There was a line to look, and beside the casket, there was a guestbook. We had one at my mom's funeral, which my dad kept in his room, but I hadn't seen my dad's guestbook since the day of his funeral.

Whitney and I stood quietly in line, watching as everyone ahead of us walked past the casket and nodded, a couple of people putting flowers on his chest. When it was our turn to finally go up, I let Whitney go up first, and she bowed her head in respect. I was pretty sure that it was the first sign of respect she had shown since arriving.

She got out of the way as I walked up, and I looked down at the man in the casket. The only consolation in death, I found, was that there was so much peace about it—at least when it was like this. The man in the casket was in an everlasting slumber, the only hint that he wouldn't wake up the lack of rise in his chest. His skin, though I imagined cool, had the slightest tan, his cheeks slightly pink from blush. And his bright red hair was combed perfect, styled as if about to head out for the night.

"Hey, Morty, do you remember his name?" Whitney hissed from where she stood in front of the guest book.

I took one last look at Lyra's husband, the man she married only months ago. According to the obituary, he died unexpectedly because of a brain tumor that had gone unnoticed, but he appeared so healthy now. It was a strange façade, one that almost made me think he could come back. My dad, on the other hand, couldn't even have an open casket because of the damage he had done to his own body.

"Silver," I said, stepping down from the slightly-raised platform in front of the casket and standing behind Whitney as she scribbled something in the book. She held the pen out to me when she finished, but I shook my head. I didn't really have anything to say.

Glancing around at the crowd of people, only a couple who looked visibly upset, I wondered if coming really had been a mistake. I was selfish in my intentions of attending—thought that I could help Lyra during this painful time because I understood what death was. But, really, I only hurt her even more.

"I think I'm going to head home," I told Whitney, and her gaze, which had been wandering around the room and clearly scrutinizing others, shot to mine.

"You've only been here for, like, fifteen minutes. And have you even tried those deviled eggs?" she protested, and I smiled, holding my hand out towards her. She rolled her eyes, shaking my hand with three quick pumps. "All right. Get home safely. I can only wear black so many times in one week, got it?"

"Bye, Whitney."

I turned around, ready to head out, but froze when I noticed Lyra in front of me. I thought for a moment that it was a mistake, and almost turned around again, but she held out both of her hands to stop me. Her eye were even sadder than before, tears brimming, but she didn't burst out again. Instead, she swallowed and nodded.

"I'm sorry for earlier, Morty," she said, and when I opened my mouth to protest, she shook her head. "Don't. It's nothing personal. I've just…" She paused, twirling a strand of brown hair around her finger. "Thank you for coming to show your respects. I would appreciate it if you signed the guestbook before you left."

She didn't say anything else before continuing her cycle around the room, shaking hands with whoever else hadn't already, and I stood still for a moment.

"Wow," Whitney finally breathed behind me, and I glanced over at her. "Poor girl. It's too bad you didn't see his ghost. At least you'd be able to tell her he's okay then."

I grimaced, brushing past her and heading back over to the guestbook. The line had grown, but I stood patiently and waited, trying to think of whatever I could say to make her feel better. I wasn't sure there was anything, but I kept thinking until I was back at the book.

The guestbook was full of various scrawls, thoughts of Lyra being held in prayers and wishes of good fortune upon her in this time of need. The words were kind, peaceful, but I knew it would be awhile before Lyra would be composed enough to read them. I had never actually read what people said about my mom, despite the fact that my dad kept it in the house while he was still alive.

But someday, maybe, Lyra would be happy enough again to read what these people had to say. And maybe, way in the back, she would find mine.

I'll watch over him, I wrote, as if I really could, in hope that it was enough to convince her that he was okay.

Author's Note: Sorry that the chapter is kind of short, but maybe it just feels that way because Across the Sun was so long. And why I keep writing in the POV of guys, I have no idea. I clearly hate myself.

Anyway… here it is. I'm not sure how quickly I'll be able to do updates because I'm about to start school again. But I'll try my best.

Until next time.