The rain fell quietly that evening. Aizel stood before a cracked gravestone, an umbrella trembling in his hand. His mother's name was half-erased by time, but he didn't need to read it—he had memorized every curve of her name since the day she left this world.
He always came here. It had become a ritual of pain. Every visit was a conversation with a ghost that would never answer.
> "Mother… Liya's fine. She smiles more now."
The words escaped his mouth like steam in winter—warm, fragile, and vanishing.
Aizel's life had been nothing but a series of quiet sacrifices. When his mother died, he had only one person left—his little sister, Liya. He lived not for himself but for her happiness. He worked long hours, skipped meals, and smiled even when the loneliness in his heart screamed.
---
Liya had married young—against advice, against reason. Her husband, John, was a drunkard who once ran a small business that never seemed to stand straight. Aizel had hated him at first sight: the smell of alcohol, the arrogance hiding behind cheap politeness, the eyes that never looked honest.
Yet, Aizel kept silent. Because Liya loved him.
Whenever she cried over her husband's losses or the children's hunger, Aizel came running. He sold his watch, his phone, sometimes skipped rent just to send her money.
He would never forget one night, sitting by her side as she sobbed.
> "Liya," he said softly, "why do you still stay with him? He treats you badly. You deserve better."
She wiped her tears and smiled—a small, tired smile that hurt him more than any words could.
> "He's a drunk, yes, but he loves me, Aizel. He's a good father when sober. He just… drinks because life is hard. He's kind, really. Don't hate him."
Aizel had no answer. He had never known love; only duty and pain. Perhaps love was the blindness that made you hold onto someone who hurt you.
He didn't argue again. If Liya said she was happy, that was enough. He would carry her burdens silently, even if it broke him.
Time moved without mercy.
Aizel worked in a decent company—ordinary salary, ordinary life. He never dated, never confessed to anyone. He couldn't. Every time he saw couples laughing, he wondered what that warmth felt like, but something deep inside whispered: You're not meant for that.
His small joys came from Liya's happiness. Each time he heard her voice filled with laughter, it felt like a victory. Each time her children called him Uncle, it felt like his own family's legacy survived.
He spent more than he could afford on her family. School fees. Hospital bills. Food when her husband wasted money on drink.
"Don't worry about paying me back," he would say.
He never kept receipts. He never counted how much he had given.
---
Years turned into decades.
Aizel was now thirty-five. His back ached from long hours at work. The small apartment he rented smelled faintly of ink and loneliness.
Liya and John had suddenly risen. John's business had finally succeeded. They had bought a villa, expensive cars, servants. The family that once begged now lived in luxury.
And yet—no phone calls came.
At first, Aizel thought they were busy. Then days became months. His calls went unanswered. Messages unread. Finally, he went to their house in the village—a mansion behind tall gates and uniformed guards.
> "I'm here to see Liya," he said, forcing a smile.
The guard didn't even look up from his clipboard. "Madam is busy. No visitors."
Aizel tried again. "I'm her brother."
The man's tone didn't change. "She said no visitors."
Aizel froze. The words stung more than any slap.
He stood outside the gate for a long time, holding a small bag filled with gifts for his niece and nephew. Eventually, he turned away.
Walking back alone, he whispered to himself, "Maybe she's avoiding me because she thinks I'll ask for money back. It's fine… I never wanted anything."
The streetlights blurred through his tears.
---
Inside the villa, laughter echoed. Liya leaned back on the couch, a glass of wine in her hand.
> "My brother used to call so often," she sighed. "Always asking how we are, always sending money. I appreciated it once, but he became so… clingy. Always worrying about me, about the kids. It was creepy, really."
John chuckled, his belly shaking. "Creepy or not, he was useful. Without him, we'd be begging in the streets. Let him rot in his apartment. If he asks for money back, tell him you lost everything."
Liya laughed too. "He wouldn't dare. He's too soft. He thinks too much with his heart."
John leaned back, eyes gleaming. "A walking money box. Even if he dies, he'll probably leave us everything."
They clinked their glasses together.
---
Aizel's life continued like a fading candle.
He went to work. Came home. Ate alone. Slept in silence.
No one noticed him anymore. Colleagues forgot his birthday. Neighbors saw him only as the quiet man who never caused trouble.
He sometimes watched families playing in the park, wondering if somewhere in the crowd, his sister walked by with her husband and kids. He hoped she was smiling.
When he grew older, his body began to fail. The doctor said stress and exhaustion had taken their toll. Aizel didn't mind. He had lived enough.
He only regretted one thing: that he never got to see his sister one last time.
---One night, he went to sleep and never woke up.
Days passed before anyone noticed. The air grew heavy with a foul smell. Neighbors called the police. They broke open the door to find his body collapsed near the window, his face unrecognizable.
His phone lay beside him—filled with unsent messages to Liya.
> "How are the kids?"
"Don't forget to eat."
"I miss you all."
The news spread quickly—an old man dying alone in his apartment, forgotten by his only family. The report made it to local television.
When Liya saw it, she frowned. "Do we have to go?" she asked her husband.
John groaned. "It'll look bad if we don't. Just finish it quickly."
---There were only a few people at the funeral—some coworkers, a few neighbors, and Liya's family. The air smelled of rain and earth.
Liya stood near the coffin, her expression calm, almost impatient. She didn't shed a tear. She glanced at her watch more often than at her brother's face.
When the ceremony ended, she exhaled in relief. "Finally over," she whispered to her husband.
John wrapped an arm around her. "Don't be sad. He's at peace now."
They left the cemetery early.
That evening, at their villa, a letter arrived. It was from the city lawyer.
> "Notice of property transfer," it read.
All of Aizel's savings, his apartment, and remaining assets—everything was left to Liya.
Her husband's eyes widened. "Millions? Are you serious?"
Liya smiled. "Seems my brother was useful even after death."
They laughed together, glasses raised.
> "To that fool," John said, grinning. "May he keep giving even in the afterlife."
> "Cheers," Liya answered softly. "Goodbye, Aizel."
---
But Aizel's story did not end in that grave.
A faint whisper of his soul lingered—curious, gentle, unresentful. He stood unseen beside his sister, watching her laugh, watching her children play.
He could now see thoughts as light and shadow. He saw how she had seen him: as a burden, an annoyance, a tool.
And he saw John's heart—greedy, rotten, selfish.
He should have hated them. He should have cursed their names.
But instead, he smiled.
> "It's okay," he whispered. "You were my world. If you're happy, then it's enough."
His soul trembled like dust in sunlight. As it began to fade, a soft warmth touched him—like a mother's hand from long ago.
> "You've done enough, my child," a gentle voice echoed. "Sleep now."
Aizel closed his eyes.
His final thought was not of pain, nor regret, but of love—a pure, foolish, unconditional love that defied the cruelty of the world.
---In that forgotten corner of the city, a nameless grave stood under the falling rain. No flowers, no visitors, just silence.
Yet somewhere beyond the mortal sky, a spark moved—a soul that refused to disappear, destined for another world, where his sorrow would become strength, and his heart that defied heaven would begin anew.