The day was dark, unnaturally so, though it was already afternoon. Thick clouds hung low in the sky, pressing down on the world as if mourning alongside those below. The air was heavy, damp, and suffocating, carrying the unmistakable promise of rain—rain that lingered, hesitant, as though even the heavens were unsure when to weep.
It was Wednesday.
The 31st of May, 2024.
A day that should have been remembered for laughter, for celebration, for vows spoken beneath flowers and warm smiles. Instead, it became a day stitched together by joy that never arrived and tears that would never stop falling—all belonging to the same person.
Everyone was dressed in black.
Some wore tailored suits and elegant dresses, their grief wrapped neatly in expensive fabric. Others looked as though they had crawled straight out of sorrow itself—clothes wrinkled, eyes hollow, faces streaked with tears they hadn't bothered to wipe away. Mourning did not care for appearances, and today, it showed.
They stood in rows, straight and solemn, like silent witnesses to a tragedy no one could undo.
At the very front stood the immediate family.
A black-and-white framed photograph was held between trembling hands. In it was a young girl, her lips curved into a gentle smile, her eyes bright with a warmth that now felt cruel in its permanence. She looked as though she had been caught mid-laughter, smiling at something only she remembered—something alive, something happy.
Her mother clutched the frame tightly, fingers digging into its edges as though sheer force could keep her daughter from slipping further away. Her knuckles were white, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably. It was as if she feared that loosening her grip—even for a second—would erase the last remaining proof that her daughter had ever existed.
There was no doubt about it.
This was a funeral.
A farewell to someone deeply loved.
Someone irreplaceable.
The wind picked up, cold and sharp, tugging at black veils and coats. The first drops of rain finally fell, slow and deliberate, splashing against umbrellas and sinking into the earth beneath the coffin.
At a far corner of the burial ground, almost completely unseen, stood a man.
He had no umbrella.
Rain poured relentlessly over him, soaking his clothes, flattening his hair against his forehead, running down his face so freely that no one could tell where the rain ended and his tears began. His shoulders shook violently, his chest heaving as sobs tore out of him—raw, broken, unrestrained.
He cried as though the world had ended.
Why?
Because the girl being lowered into the ground was his everything.
His fiancée.
His future.
His once-in-a-lifetime love.
Ciao Ren.
She had been priceless to him in a way no words could ever fully capture. She was the kind of person whose absence left a permanent hollow in the chest, the kind whose laughter lingered long after silence replaced it.
And today—of all days—was her birthday.
Today was supposed to be their wedding day.
The venue had been booked. The invitations sent. The dress chosen. Rings waiting patiently in their velvet box. A future carefully planned down to the smallest detail.
Instead of walking down the aisle toward him, she lay still in a coffin, surrounded by flowers meant to soften the cruelty of death.
Instead of vows, there were prayers for her soul.
Instead of celebration, there was soil waiting to cover her forever.
All because he had left her that night.
All because he chose a baby shower over staying.
Lian Yu.
That was his name.
And that choice—so small, so harmless in his mind at the time—became the greatest mistake of his life.
He had told himself he would be quick. That she would understand. That there would be plenty of time later.
But later never came.
Ciao Ren was only twenty-five.
Twenty-five years old, with dreams
unfinished, a life unlived, and a love that never reached its ending.
She had died just like that.
Suddenly. Quietly. Without giving him the chance to say he was sorry.
Without giving him the chance to choose her again.
He had come to the burial desperate, broken, clinging to the illusion that standing here might bring him closer to her one last time.
Instead, grief turned cruel.
Voices rose. Accusations followed. Pain sharpened into blame.
And in the end, he was thrown out.
Cast aside from the very place where she was being laid to rest—like a sinner unworthy of mourning, like a ghost haunting a life he no longer belonged to.
Lian Yu stood there, drenched, trembling, watching from afar as the coffin was lowered inch by inch into the ground.
The rain finally poured in earnest.
And with it, something inside him shattered completely.
___
During the period of condolences, Lian Yu came.
He came the same way he had been since that night—broken beyond repair, eyes hollow, face drained of color, as though grief had carved itself permanently into his bones. His suit was neat, yet it hung on him loosely, like it no longer belonged to someone alive. He did not straighten his back. He did not lift his head. He walked as though each step cost him something irreplaceable.
That was how he was now.
In and out.
Yet the moment her mother saw him, everything shattered.
The woman who had once welcomed him into her home with warmth, who had fed him with her own hands and smiled as if the world held nothing more precious than her daughter's happiness—she snapped.
Her grief twisted violently into something feral.
"You bastard!" she screamed, her voice cracking as it tore through the funeral hall.
"You son of a bitch! I regret it—I regret allowing you into my daughter's life! You killed her! You killed her!"
Her words came like knives, sharp and merciless. She spat at him, shoved him with trembling hands, struck his chest and shoulders again and again, each hit fueled by a mother's unbearable loss. People rushed forward, voices overlapping, trying to restrain her—but grief has no patience for reason.
Lian Yu did not move.
He did not raise his hands.
He did not step back.
He did not defend himself.
He stood there, unmoving, letting every blow land as though punishment was something he had come to receive.
The words should not have hurt.
They really shouldn't have.
But they did—more than anything else had.
Because this was the same woman who once looked at him with pride, who called him son with a smile so genuine it made him forget he wasn't related by blood. The same woman who had trusted him with her most precious treasure, believing he would protect her daughter better than anyone else in the world.
And now…
Now she looked at him as if he were filth.
As if he were something rotten she wished she had never touched.
That was why it hurt.
"Mom—"
The sound of the slap echoed violently through the hall.
It was loud. Final. Cruel.
Lian Yu's head snapped to the side, his cheek burning, yet the pain barely registered. What hurt more was the look in her eyes.
She glared at him with naked contempt and disgust.
"Don't ever call me that," she said, her voice trembling but sharp as glass. "You are not my son. You never were. When she was on her deathbed, she promised me—she promised me—never to let you see her off. She said she wished she had never met you.
And I will fulfill that wish."
Her eyes were swollen, red-rimmed, drowning in emotions too heavy to name.
And in those eyes, Lian Yu saw everything.
Anger—burning, unrestrained.
Disappointment—deep and irreversible.
Shame—so heavy it bent her spine.
Pity—small, fleeting, but there.
And rage—raw and screaming, louder than any sound she made.
He deserved it.
He knew that.
Yet even so… a part of him still hoped.
Just one chance.
Just one last look.
Just one moment to see her off properly.
A foolish hope. A selfish one.
Ciao Ren would never come back.
And when she died, she had been hoping for him.
That truth alone was enough to suffocate him.
Her mother's voice haunted him relentlessly.
"If you were there, she would have lived. If you were there, she would have at least died without sadness. She said she didn't mind… She said just seeing you one last time would be enough. Just be with her. Just that. And it would have been worthwhile."
Yet—
He wasn't there.
Not when the accident happened.
Not when she was rushed into the hospital.
Not when the doctors called her emergency contact.
He had turned his phone off.
He thought it was one of her tantrums.
And that thought alone now felt like a curse branded into his soul.
Because deep down, he knew the truth.
Ciao Ren was never dramatic.
She never sought attention.
If anything, attention always found its way to her instead.
She carried herself with quiet grace, even when she was hurting. Even when he grew distant. Even when his affection wavered under the weight of misplaced priorities and unspoken guilt.
Now, when he looked back, he realized something that tore him apart even more.
She never complained.
Never begged.
Never demanded.
Perhaps it was pride.
Perhaps it was guilt.
Perhaps it was love.
But he was the one closest to her.
The only one.
Her mother was far away. By the time the message reached her, it was already too late. Ciao Ren had been holding on—barely—just long enough to say goodbye. Just long enough to whisper her last words to the only family she had left.
If he had come…
She could have been saved.
If he had come, the consent form could have been signed.
If he had come, she would not have been alone.
If he had come, she would not have died with unanswered longing in her heart.
But he chose another obligation.
Another person.
Another moment.
And she died.
Not because she didn't want to live.
But because the one person she was waiting for never returned.
___
Being accused was one thing.
But being hated—truly, thoroughly hated—was something else entirely.
Accusations could be argued against. They could be endured, borne like a temporary punishment. But hatred was final. Hatred meant there was no place left for him in the world she once belonged to.
If she had left him for another man—just as he had, in his own way, abandoned her—it would have been easier. Better, even.
Perhaps the best outcome he deserved.
If she had chosen someone else, like in the movies, at least he would have known she was still alive somewhere. Laughing. Breathing. Loving. Living the life he had failed to give her.
He could have been the shameless one then.
He could have watched her from afar, lingering at the edges of her happiness, content with scraps of sight and sound. He would have left quietly, without disturbing her peace. He would have admired her life from a distance—low-key, invisible, just grateful she existed.
That would have been enough.
But she didn't leave him.
She died.
And there was nothing—absolutely nothing—worse than that.
Now, on that rain-soaked day, as the coffin was carried slowly away, shoulders hunched beneath its unbearable weight, Lian Yu stood alone.
The rain fell harder, pounding against umbrellas and black coats, soaking into the ground as though the earth itself was trying to drown its sorrow. His clothes clung to him uselessly, but he didn't feel the cold.
Everything inside him was already numb.
He watched as they lowered her into the ground.
And something inside him snapped.
"Ciao Ren…" His voice broke, loud enough that several people nearby heard it. "You're too cruel."
The words spilled out before he could stop them.
Then, softer—almost to the rain, almost to the air itself—he murmured, "…but I guess this is your way of punishing me."
As if she could hear him.
As if she might answer.
But the silence only grew heavier.
Suddenly, his restraint shattered completely.
"Why do you have to punish me like this?!" he screamed, his voice raw and unhinged, torn apart by grief he could no longer contain. "Why?! Why—!"
The rain swallowed his cries, but not entirely.
His sobs tore through his chest, so violent that even the storm seemed to pause for a brief moment, as though listening.
For just one heartbeat, her mother looked at him.
It was the same look she used to give him when he stood beside her precious daughter—when he was still family, still trusted, still loved.
Her face remained cold.
But her eyes… softened.
Only slightly.
Only for a moment.
Then the coffin disappeared into the ground.
Flowers followed—white lilies, pale roses, petals trembling as they fell. People cried openly now. Some whispered prayers.
Others bowed their heads, unable to face the finality of it all.
One by one, they left.
The cemetery slowly emptied.
Until only Lian Yu remained.
He stood there long after the rain eased, long after the voices faded, long after the world decided it was time to move on.
He knelt before her grave, fingers trembling as they brushed against the cold stone. The carved words stared back at him, merciless in their permanence.
Here lies Ciao Ren.
In loving memory of the girl dearest to us.
He read it once.
Then again.
And again.
Each time, memories surged forward—her laughter, her quiet smiles, the way she used to look at him when she thought he wasn't watching. Good memories clashed violently with the shock of her absence, sending waves of pain crashing through him.
It felt unreal.
Impossible.
This wasn't a goodbye that should have ever existed.
Not to him.
Not to them.
Not to a love that had never truly ended—only been abandoned at the wrong moment.
Rainwater slid down the tombstone like silent tears.
And Lian Yu stayed there, kneeling in the mud, holding onto grief that would follow him far beyond that grave.
Because some goodbyes don't end when the funeral does.
They linger.
They haunt.
And they wait—quietly—for fate to decide whether regret will be the end… or the beginning of something far crueler.