You died this week…at least, you legally did.

The statute varies for each region. In Kanto, it takes ten years to declare a missing person legally dead. In Kalos, it's only five. For Sinnoh, it's eight. I've heard nothing from you, nor have you given us any indication that you're still alive. You aren't obligated to. I just wish I knew what happened.

If you did die, I could at least take solace in knowing nobody will ever bother you again. If you're alive, I'm wishing you well. I hope you found what you were looking for and that it's everything you expected. No part of me wants to imagine that you're suffering.

Three years ago, I caught up to you in age. As hard as that was for me, receiving your death certificate hit me much harder. I've held documents like that before. I first saw one when my father died. I was eleven.

Speaking of fathers, I'm finally going to meet yours. As your Lieutenant Commander, I handled Team Galactic in your absence. I never realized you had also trusted me enough to put me in charge of your last will and testament.

You'd probably think it pointless and even a tad silly, but Mars, Jupiter, and I took the day off to reflect and reminisce. Some of the older grunts—those who were here long enough to remember you—asked if they could as well. I permitted it. Everyone grieved in their own private way.

On days like these, I wonder if maybe you were right. Maybe spirit is what hinders us from reaching our full potential. Grief is a terrible emotion. Just when I think I've collected myself enough to get back to work, my memories of you come back and I'm miserable.

I think I scared one of the newer grunts. She's never seen me cry before.

Newton's Third Law of Motion tells us that all forces in the universe come in opposing pairs of equal power. I think the same can be said for emotions. The sorrow and grief I feel is equal to the amount of joy and fulfillment your existence used to provide me.

I miss you so much. Please respond before I have to do this.

…

It was unsettling, seeing the place where you grew up. Your father still lives in the same townhouse overlooking the Sunyshore City beaches. While he doesn't work full time as a Quality Manager anymore, he in the process of training his replacement so he can retire and spend his final years in relative comfort.

Judging from the way our conversation began, I could tell he was counting on you for financial support. I knew better.

We very seldom talked about your childhood. Even then, you had far more to say about your mother than your father. To my memory, you only ever told me that your father was a cruel, quick-tempered person. I forgot how exactly you phrased it. I was paying more attention to how your entire body tensed up when you said his name.

I felt guilty. The only reason he came up in conversation was because my mother found some of my father's old things and called, asking if I wanted them. You overheard the end of that conversation, noted the melancholy in my voice, and wanted to remind me that my emotions were holding me back.

But I wasn't the one who squeezed the edge of my chair until my knuckles turned white when I talked about my father, was I?

I saw the family resemblance. You're both tall men with broad shoulders and hard faces. You have his cheekbones, his strong jaw, his large and calloused hands…and I got to experience firsthand what one of those hands felt like on my face when he struck me: something you would never do.

You left him nothing. He was very disappointed, but I suspect that even if you'd left him everything, it wouldn't have been enough. Some people are black holes; and your father is certainly one of them.

I asked about your grandfather, since he's the only relative you cared about enough to mention by name. If I'd seen your will prior to this, I would have known you wished for his final years to be comfortable ones. All medical bills were to be paid off, along with taxes on his house on Route 228. If he needed long term care of any type, you wanted to make sure some of your assets were spent on that.

…he died two years ago. And his bastard son-in-law couldn't even be bothered to cough up the money for a proper headstone.

I'm sorry. That's really all I can do for your grandfather. I also purchased an empty plot adjacent to his and a headstone for you. I know you aren't buried there, and you'd probably see that as a pointless purchase, but it isn't to me. It isn't for Jupiter, Mars, or your old associates, either. Now we have a place to congregate when we want to remember you.

I bought a nearby plot for myself, too.