By the time the last guest arrived, the rain had already stopped.
It had poured that morning, the kind of downpour that turned soil black and heavy, as if the earth itself refused to release what it held. Now the sky stretched pale and indifferent above the cemetery, watching without comment.
Jasper Brooks stood at the crowd's edge in a black shirt washed so many times it had faded to a dull, dirty gray. The sleeves rode up short on his wrists. The fabric was thin, threadbare at the elbows. Still neat, in its way. It was the best he owned.
No one stood beside him.
Two polished coffins rested ahead, far too elegant for the modest life his grandparents had known. When word of Grandpa Walter's death reached Grandma Ruth, she simply couldn't bear the shock. She followed her husband to the grave just days later. Fresh flowers framed them: white lilies, roses, wreaths from strangers who valued appearances over acquaintance.
They had all come.
Luxury cars lined the cemetery road. His uncles and aunts emerged in tailored suits and spotless shoes, watches catching faint sunlight. Cousins trailed behind, laughing softly, scrolling phones, whispering like it was a business lunch or a family reunion. Nothing in their faces betrayed grief. They looked impatient, inconvenienced.
Jasper kept his head lowered. Their indifference clawed at him.
These were the same people who hadn't visited in years. The last time they appeared was after his parents' accident eight years ago, the one that left ten-year-old Jasper as the only survivor. They came then—not for comfort, but to divide property. Raised voices, cold calculations over land and savings. Once the papers were signed, they vanished. No calls. No check-ins. Not even to ask how Grandpa Walter and Grandma Ruth were holding up.
Now here they stood, polished and unbothered.
Glances flicked his way: curious, dismissive, faintly disgusted. Eyes lingered on his faded shirt, as though he dirtied their perfect scene.
No one spoke to him. No one offered a hand or a word.
The priest spoke of family, remembrance, love. A few aunts dabbed carefully at dry eyes, preserving mascara. An uncle checked his watch and sighed.
Jasper's chest tightened.
He remembered Grandpa Walter rising before dawn, coughing hard enough to shake the bedframe, yet still shuffling to the kitchen to wind that old pocket watch with trembling fingers. Grandma Ruth hummed old hymns while stirring porridge, her apron dusted with flour, always saving the last spoonful for Jasper. They had endured sickness, loneliness, and time itself—for him.
And yet these people stood tall, untouched.
When the coffins descended, no wails broke the air. No desperate hands reached out. Only silence. Hollow and complete.
People began leaving before the dirt finished falling.
"Let's go. Meeting in an hour," one uncle said casually.
"Waste of a day," another muttered.
Jasper stayed rooted long after the crowd thinned. Each shovel of earth thudded against wood, then against his ribs.
No one left to care for now. Not his dad. Not his mom. Not his grandparents. Not even himself. He had no strength for it.
The lawyer's message pinged that evening.
Family meeting tomorrow, 10 a.m.
Subject: Distribution of property and will.
Jasper stared at the screen until it dimmed. He had braced for this. Still, the words sank like lead into his gut.
He returned home aching, mind racing. Sleep never came.
Morning arrived gray. He checked the address, stomach twisting. He didn't want to go, but he needed to know what—if anything—he had inherited. He stood up sluggishly, took his bath, put on his clothes, and made the long walk to the bus stop. The ride took him into a part of town too clean, too corporate.
The law firm's conference room held familiar faces that felt like strangers.
Uncles lounged, legs crossed, murmuring about stocks and vacations. Aunts compared overseas boutiques. Cousins slouched, bored, thumbs flying across screens.
Jasper took the farthest chair. Alone.
The lawyer entered: crisp suit, folder, tablet. Polite greetings. Then the reading began.
Walter and Ruth had owned more land than Jasper ever realized: fertile farms, empty commercial plots, hidden value in locations he knew almost better than anyone in the room.
Names were called. Properties assigned.
Not his.
Minutes dragged.
Still not his.
Jasper's fingers curled under the table, nails biting palms.
At the final page, silence.
He lifted his head. "Excuse me."
Heads turned, startled, as if a ghost had spoken.
"Yes?" the lawyer asked.
"What about me?" Jasper's voice stayed low, steady despite the tremor underneath. "What did they leave me?"
The room stilled.
Then a cousin snorted a laugh.
The lawyer hesitated, then shook his head gently. "Your name isn't in the will."
Jasper froze. Breath shallowed.
"That's not possible." The words came out cracked. "I took care of them. Every day. I—"
"We have a video," the lawyer said softly. He lifted his phone.
Twenty-five minutes. Walter and Ruth sat side by side on their old couch, calm, composed. They explained each gift: land to sons, houses to daughters, shares to grandchildren. Jasper's name never passed their lips. Not once. As if he had been erased from memory until the very end.
Cousins shifted restlessly. An uncle yawned. Impatience thickened the air.
When it ended, the lawyer closed the folder.
"That concludes the meeting."
Jasper heard nothing after that. Only fragments as he rose.
"So that's why you were always around."
"Long game, huh?"
"All for nothing."
He walked out. Didn't look back.
That evening the house felt foreign: empty, temporary.
Less than ten dollars sat on the scarred kitchen table.
Rent. Food. Bus fare. School fees.
None of it solved.
A knock.
He opened the door to a young guy, older than him, smiling easily. Designer hoodie, fresh sneakers, the kind of casual wealth that didn't need to try.
Jasper recognized the face but couldn't place the name at first. "Yes?"
"I'm Ronald, your cousin." The smile stayed wide, like this was good news. "I inherited this place."
The words landed cold and final. Jasper nodded once, slowly.
Ronald didn't wait for more. "I'm turning it into a sports center—modern setup, turf, weights, the works. This house has to go, obviously. Demolished by next month, tops."
Demolished.
The word hit like a brick through glass. This house—the narrow hallway where Grandma Ruth taught him to tie his shoes, the kitchen table scarred from Grandpa Walter's pocket-knife whittling, the bedrooms where he'd slept between them during thunderstorms—was going to be rubble for some gym no one in this quiet neighborhood would ever use.
Ronald kept talking, gesturing at the yard like he was already measuring it. "Gonna need parking too, so maybe widen the gate. You got stuff here, right? I can give you the weekend to clear out."
Jasper's throat closed. He wanted to say the house wasn't just "stuff." That every creak in the floorboards held a memory of the only people who'd ever really seen him. But the words wouldn't come.
"I just need the weekend," he said quietly, "to move my things."
Ronald paused, finally looking at him—really looking—for half a second. Then the easy smile returned. "Cool. No rush, man. Take your time."
He turned and jogged back down the cracked path to his car, already pulling out his phone like the conversation was checked off a list.
The door clicked shut.
Jasper leaned against the wall and slid to the floor.
For the first time since the funeral, real anger rose: not loud, not explosive, but deep and spreading, like rot finding its way into every crack.