A/N: Adding this chapter in here because I thought it went with the story. More sads.

8:07PM — Los Angeles — July 9, 1972

Toontown didn't have a cemetery. There was no need for one. Not really.

For one, the subject of death — real, true death; the cessation of being — was somewhat of a taboo amongst Toons. Not just because it was an unpleasant topic in and of itself, but because it was simply not something they were supposed to experience. Not like a human.

For a human, death was as natural as breathing. They had come to know, and accept, that it was their ultimate fate. Every king and peasant, every leader and coward, every multi-millionaire and homeless man — each and every one of them would one day die. And it was normal.

For a Toon, there was no ageing, no disease, no permanent injury. Death was not normal, and therefore — for the most part — not discussed, nor understood.

Toontown may not have had a cemetery, but there was one laying near the outskirts of it. Tucked away a few miles down the road from the long tunnel leading to its entry. Largely filled with unmarked graves, and graves that had been worn away by time. Graves that hadn't seen visitors in years.

But it's where they'd wanted to be…

Long, scraggly strands of grass grew along the unmaintained grounds as a figure walked passed, stopping at a set of two graves, placed side-by-side. One was old and claimed by time as many of the others — though the elongated grass had been torn away from the inscription to reveal:

THEODORE "TEDDY" VALIANT

Roger stopped before the newer grave of the two, leaned down, and set a bouquet of small, yellow flowers before it. As soon as the flowers left his hand, did they move up to wrap around his waist, gloved fingers curling along the side of his overalls — and for a good long moment, he simply held his gaze on them, as if expecting them to spring to life.

But they didn't.

Giving a sigh, the rabbit leaned down before the grave, resting forward on his toes, and looked down to the side, where he now picked at the stray strands of grass that were beginning to sprout.

Still no talking.

It wasn't the same…

Finally, Roger broke the extended silence.

"I know you hate flowers," he began, still picking at the stray blades of grass. "I didn't know what else I could bring. Everyone else brings flowers." The few graves in the area that continued to be visited, regularly had flowers on them. Dolores had said that she would bring flowers to him sometimes. That's all that ever seemed to be brought. As far as he knew, the flowers were significant in some way — so he brought them too.

Sitting himself down on the ground completely, Roger pressed his feet together and began to rock slightly, still refusing to look up at the grave itself.

"Maybe if you told me what you wanted, I could bring something better." He said with a hint of hopefulness. Though that soon fell away as the silence once again stretched on. It was a strange and foreign concept, to speak to someone and receive no answer. To speak to someone who wasn't really there anymore. His throat was becoming constricted, and he swallowed the lump that was rising in it. At first it had been strange, but now it was becoming increasingly clear that there would never be another answer.

Finally, he let the grass he had been picking drop to the ground, and lifted his gaze to his friend's grave.

"Can you even hear me?" He asked the object, breath quickening.

It didn't move.

It didn't speak.

It didn't do anything.

Suddenly, a flash of anger travelled through him. It wasn't fair. Everyone thought that humans were more important than Toons anyways, so why were they the ones that had to die? Now they couldn't go for walks, or see movies, or eat lunch, or go on trips, or tell jokes. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair.

His foot kicked out hard into the ground, scraping away a large streak of grass from the recently upturned soil. That was enough to break him of his reverie and he gasped, his heart skipped a beat, and almost instantly he turned over and crawled quickly towards the divot. Taking the piece of kicked-up grass in his hands, he gently lay it back over the indentation.

"Sorry." His heart was beating a mile a minute now, as he gently smoothed the grass back down. He leaned back on his heels and hugged his knees close to himself. After a moment, he let his head fall and buried his face in his knees, beginning to rock once more. "Why'd you have to go?" He asked, voice high and constricted. This time though, he expected no answer. "We're best friends. You're still mine. At least that's not gonna change." He cried, and looked back up to the grave with watery eyes. "I really hope you can hear me."

Throughout his life, the subject of an 'afterlife' was a strange one to consider. How could there be life after life, when life wasn't supposed to end in the first place? It made his head spin, and his pupils swirl, and he would never dwell on it for long.

After the war, he'd heard more about it. But especially now, it was beginning to make sense — it was for the humans.

The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. He had tried, and the concept of just 'not being' was one that he couldn't even comprehend. Even when asleep, there are dreams that are experienced. But to have no experience at all? To just… not be? That couldn't be what happened when someone died. He couldn't even picture it.

Humans had many explanations for what happened after death. Some came back to life, some went 'to a better place' — as he had been told again and again. Some were still there, only unable to be seen.

Humans had a better understanding of it all than he did, but he had managed to piece together something that they all had in common — that life continued on, in some way.

Roger looked back up to the grave, and wiped at an eye with the back of his glove. His nose twitched, and his hands trembled, and it was hard not having Eddie around any more, but maybe it was true — maybe he could still hear him