The last funeral

The three men sat around the table in silence.

The dim candlelight flickered across their faces in the pitch-black room—but their expressions were perhaps even darker.

Humbert rested his heavy head in his hands, rubbing his brows in despair, his mind drowning in thoughts—desperate to find a solution to this terrible crisis. They had tried nearly everything.

"Aster. That's what he said before he lost consciousness. It's the only thread we have left to follow,"

the doctor said.

Humbert stood and began pacing back and forth around them.

He looked toward the priest.

"Is there anyone by that name—any deaths linked to a strange incident?"

The priest furrowed his brows, repeating the name under his breath as it echoed through his mind.

"I became the head of the orphanage after my father passed away seven years ago.

I had been abroad and returned because no one else could run it.

In all my time in this city, I've never come across that name. No such incident ever reached my ears."

"Could it be the name of a sibling?"

"No, Doctor. Arto has no siblings."

Humbert did not sleep that night.

Sleep abandoned him as he sat beside Arto, his eyes heavy and filled with worry, silently praying the boy would suddenly awaken, smile, and say he was alright—then they'd go home together.

Hours passed, and every solution that crossed his mind felt like failure.

Nothing made sense. Nothing was clear.

The silence grew heavier, pressing on his heart. He could hear nothing but the weight of his own breath.

He no longer cared if another child died in this cursed orphanage.

In that moment, he wished he'd never come.

He only wanted to go back with his son—far from here, back home.

At the break of dawn, Humbert could no longer bear sitting beside the bed.

He stepped out into the garden where the children were playing.

They were singing, and one child leapt across squares drawn with numbers.

Humbert paid no mind—he was already turning back to the house when a child's song caught his attention:

"Jump, jump,

Run, run,

Before the cunning fox comes,

And steals your feet.

Aster, Aster,

What did your parents do to you?

Are they foxes?

Did they steal your feet?"

Humbert's eyes widened at the last verse.

He stormed over to the boy and grabbed his hand sharply.

"Where did you learn that song?!"

"Ow, you're hurting my hand!"

He loosened his grip slightly and wiped his face, then repeated the question more gently.

"Where did you hear that song?"

"It's just a song we sing when we play..."

"I mean—why does it say 'Aster, what did your parents do to you?'

What did they do? Who is Aster?"

"Oh, you mean the meaning of the song?"

Another boy, slightly older, stepped up and answered:

"It's just a legend."

"A legend? What does the legend say?"

"They say, in this city, a father once cut off his son's feet.

The boy's name was Aster."

Something clicked inside Humbert.

A flash of realization lit up his eyes.

He stood quickly and rushed back into the house, searching for the priest.

At that moment, the priest was speaking with the doctor in his room—something about a dead whale found by the shore—when Humbert burst in, breathless and urgent.

"Humbert, what is it?"

"Tell me—do you know anything about a legend in this city?

About a boy whose father cut off his feet?"

"Ah... yes, about a father who lost his mind and... yes, he cut off his son's feet."

"What was the boy's name?"

"A... Aster..."

Humbert gritted his teeth. He had asked the priest again and again, and still the man claimed he knew nothing.

The priest fell silent for a moment, then said:

"That can't be. It's just folklore. No one even knows if it really happened."

"And what if it did happen? What if it's real?

You said it yourself—it could be an angry spirit or something like that."

"I don't think it's wise to let your emotions push you into believing a myth right now,"

said the doctor.

"I'll believe anything right now to save him.

He's all I have left."

"Fine. Let's assume it is the spirit of this so-called Aster. What then? What would you do?"

"There's one way to communicate with the dead.

And I have what I need for it. But I've never tried it before."

"And what is it?"

"If I told you, you'd think I was mad.

So I'll keep that to myself.

I only ask you both to look after him while I'm gone."

"He won't make it... just like the others,"

the priest said solemnly.

"It's been more than five hours, Father.

Arto's not like the others.

Whatever's happening to him—he's fighting it."

Humbert turned to leave, his voice raised as he called out while heading toward the stairs:

"Ready my carriage. I'm leaving at once."

He entered the room, grabbed his coat and bag.

The doctor had followed him upstairs.

As soon as Humbert saw him, he approached and placed a hand on the doctor's shoulder.

"Stay with him until I return.

And if things take a turn—if he starts screaming in pain..."

He didn't want to say it.

The words stuck in his throat.

He tightened his grip on Lloyd's shoulder.

"Inject him. Let him die peacefully."