For seven days straight, Egemed visited Jerelr's grave until the dark soil disappeared beneath a blanket of white tulips.
He had not eaten or drunk even a sip of water since the moment Jerelr died. Weak, exhausted, hollowed out by grief, he still returned every day, dragging his fragile body to the same spot as though the earth itself called him back.
On the seventh day, he fell asleep leaning against the tombstone. His breath was shallow, his body cold. An old gravekeeper, making his afternoon rounds, stopped when he saw the young man curled beside the grave. He tapped Egemed's shoulder gently and whispered,
"Hey, young man… why are you sleeping on the grave?"
Egemed startled awake and straightened himself, offering the old man a faint, weary smile.
"Is she your wife?" the gravekeeper asked. "I've seen you here for a week now."
Egemed didn't reply immediately. He only smiled — a small, fragile curve of the lips.
The gravekeeper waited, patient.
Finally, Egemed said, "He is my only friend."
"Just a friend?" the gravekeeper echoed, astonished. "But you visit him as though you loved him deeply. Even husbands and wives rarely do what you are doing."
"He may be only a friend," Egemed said softly, "but he meant the world to me. And I regret losing him without a goodbye."
The gravekeeper fell silent, bowing his head. "What happened to him?"
"He was sick for a long time," Egemed whispered, "and I didn't even know."
"These things happen," the old man sighed. "We can't change them. They haunt us until we learn to accept."
"Mn," Egemed murmured.
"Have you not moved on yet?" the gravekeeper asked gently.
"Almost," Egemed replied. "I have to keep living. But I can't forget him. He gave me life again when I had given up on everything."
"So you were very close," the old man said, nodding.
"We were," Egemed smiled faintly. "Close like we were born of the same mother."
"Will you visit again tomorrow?"
Egemed turned his gaze toward him. "I might be."
"Oh… you must be hurting very deeply. What makes you keep returning?"
"I regret too much," Egemed whispered, eyes blurring with tears. "And mostly… I couldn't see his...his... face one last time."
"It will be all right," the gravekeeper said gently. "I hope he sees you and forgives you. Keep living."
"It's hard to forget — I won't call you a fool for grieving this way. Most people would. But if they knew what you carry, they wouldn't force you to forget, right?"
"You're right, mister," Egemed said. "I don't care what others say. What matters is the promise I made. I will never forget him. Not even if death stands between us."
His voice cracked. "I…I know he'd want to stay with me… so I will. I'll stay with him, even if the world says he's gone."
"You take words seriously," the gravekeeper said after a pause. "That's rare. I may not understand, but I respect it."
Egemed smiled softly.
They spoke for a while. And when the gravekeeper began cleaning the nearby graves, Egemed rose and quietly helped him. When their work was done, they walked out of the cemetery together.
---
On the eighth day, Egemed finally tried to eat. After a week of starvation and grief, he felt as though his own life was slipping away.
Sitting alone at the dining table with a bowl of rice and curry his mother had prepared, he lifted a spoon to his mouth. But the flavor had abandoned him. His lips were pale and cracked, his hands trembling so violently he could barely hold the spoon. He forced himself to eat, but his empty, wounded stomach rejected the food, and he threw up everything he had swallowed.
He drank water afterward, desperate to soothe the burning inside him.
Whenever he was alone, he staggered through the house like a man made of shadows. But in front of his family, he pretended to be strong — pretending he had eaten well all week.
Every time they called him to dinner, he answered, "I'll eat later."
But later never came.
In his room, he sat quietly and reread the last letter Jerelr wrote him — five, six times — repeating the words under his breath as if they were the only thing keeping him alive. And then, slowly, calmly, he made a decision: he would live. He would do as Jerelr asked.
He would finish the building under construction.
He would continue his life.
He had a job now. The fear that once crushed him no longer had the same weight.
Jerelr had changed him.
That afternoon, he visited the construction site. The workers asked where Jerelr was. Egemed shook his head gently.
"He's no more."
A stunned silence fell over them. They offered their condolences and asked to visit his grave.
Egemed led them there. Together, they placed flowers on the tomb and whispered their goodbyes.
One worker turned to him. "Why did you let us keep working like nothing happened? Why didn't you tell us sooner?"
Egemed looked down at the earth. His voice trembled.
"He didn't want anything to stop because of his death. I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier."
The workers exchanged glances, grief softening their expressions.
After a moment, they stepped back, uncertain, lingering as though hoping he would leave with them.
But Egemed lifted his hand gently, urging them away.
"Don't wait for me," he said quietly. "Go on."
They nodded and left the cemetery in a slow, respectful silence.
The moment their footsteps faded, Egemed turned toward the grave—
and his knees gave out beneath him.
He fell beside Jerelr's tomb, his palms sinking into the cold earth. His hands trembled violently as he reached toward the headstone, fingertips brushing the carved name as if afraid it would vanish.
His voice came out in a broken whisper.
"Jerelr… I…I… can't do this alone…"
His tears flooded his vision, turning the world into a blur of white tulips and stone.
The loneliness hit him all at once—sharp, crushing, merciless.
Without the workers' presence, without their quiet attempts to comfort him, the silence grew heavier. It wrapped around him like a cold wind.
A hollow ache swelled inside his chest.
He remembered the promise they made—to visit Chesior together.
To escape, to breathe, to start over.
The memory struck his heart like a blade.
"Why did you leave before we could go…" he whispered, "You promised… we promised."
The world around him stayed still, offering no answer.
Only the soft rustle of tulips swaying in the wind kept him company, as Egemed's grief settled deeper into the quiet earth.
Though it tore him apart, Egemed knew he had no choice but to keep living and carry that pain with him. Little by little, he began to accept that Jerelr was truly gone—yet his memory remained, steady and alive within him.
He had loved Jerelr so deeply that death felt like nothing more than a long night. And when the sun rose each morning, Egemed visited him the way one visits a beloved home, as if Jerelr were simply waiting inside.
As time passed, slowly, he began to live again. Though Jerelr was no longer in the world, Egemed returned to his grave every week with a fresh bundle of tulips. No grave in the cemetery looked as alive as Jerelr's; from a distance, it shone with a soft, unwavering white, as if the flowers themselves breathed.
Egemed resumed writing his unfinished books, helped his mother and family, and moved forward one quiet step at a time. And through it all, he carried Jerelr's memory with him—a gentle, enduring light guiding every promise he still kept, every breath he chose to take.