The Man Who Held the Sun

Present Year / August 14th / 7:32 AM

Aster woke up that morning feeling a dread deep inside the pit of his stomach. He’s always had good intuition, and based on the feeling he woke up with, he knew today was not going to be a good day at all. He wondered, as he changed, if perhaps one of his father’s employees was planning to quit again. That would mean the man would be one angry guy, and silent meals with the CEO of the company would be something to dread.

Aster stretched, yawning as he looked at the time. He wondered then, perhaps maybe his brother was going to be annoying again, perhaps pull a sick prank on him for whatever sick reason the older of the two Hollands would come up with as an excuse.

As he continued to brainstorm what the day would be like, he was jolted out of his thoughts when he heard a loud crash and scream from a voice he recognized as his best friend’s voice.

“Lily?” he called out as he opened the door to look down the hallway, finding Lily, the blonde girl staring, eyes wide into the room of James, Aster’s older brother. Of course, Aster didn’t question why Lily was trying to go into James’s room in the first place since she’s engaged to him. Aster ran down, quickly closing the gap between him and his soon-to-be sister in law and asked, worried, “Lily? What’s wrong?” Aster noticed the shaking of Lily’s shoulders, the tremble of her bottom lip, and the fear in her wide eyes as well as -- tears?

Aster turned to the slightly opened door of the room, wondering if perhaps James finally decided to turn his pranks over to Lily.

“James? Do you know why your fiancé is acting like she’s seen a ghost?” There was no answer, and Aster glanced back at Lily who only whimpered when he prodded for what happened. He sighed as he stood from his crouched position, and kicked the door slightly so that it would open up more. He didn’t dare go in, for the chance of a prank being pulled, but when the door revealed what was in the room, Aster could feel the blood leave his face.

“James!?” he called out to the silent body. It didn’t answer, and Aster, eyes wide, alarmed, afraid, tried to avoid the purple bruising of his brother’s neck, and ran to James’s bedside, hand, trembling slightly, as it found its way to his wrist. Aster waited, but felt no ba-dum of a pulse, so he wondered if he got the spot wrong. “Bro?” he asked again, trying to find the pulse but failing.

“What the h*ll,” he remarked as he took his brother by his shoulders and shook. “Hey, this is too sick of a prank to even call it one, you crazy idiot! You got me, I’m laughing, haha wake up!”

He barely heard the thumping of shoes on the ground as more people came in to see the scene, the cries of Lily, and the sirens in the distance. He barely understood what was going on anymore, and the world was a blur as he was taken away from the body - a dead body - and he could only think: I wished my intuition was wrong.

----

Present Year / August 14th / 8:05 AM

Millet Connor looked at the man next of her with a raised brow. “Detective Skillet, what is up with your attitude today?” Said man only sighed as he continued to drive the car to the Hollands residence. She rolled her eyes. “What? Did you get up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?” Skillet only gave her a brief glare before turning his eyes back on the road. Millet huffed. “Oh come, now, stop acting like a rebellious teen; we’re on a case - you can’t possibly be in this mindset of yours if you want to think properly!”

“Gah! Alright, woman!” the man said, taking one hand off the wheel and rubbing the side of his head. He grunted before murmuring, “Sorry, Connor; you already know I disliked James Holland to begin with.” Millet nodded in understanding.

“I understand.” She looked at him with a solemn look, “But crime is crime, and we’re detectives, are we not?”

Skillet seemed to hesitate for a brief moment, brief enough that an untrained eye would have missed it. He sighed. “You’re right; crime is crime, murder is crime, and as detectives we should assure the safety of us all. Can’t have a murderer walking around, no matter who their victim might have been.” Millet nodded in approval and a sort of pride bloomed in her chest for the man had seemingly gotten over his resentment, or rather, was able to ignore it in the face of duty and justice. Millet smiled softly; he really was a great man.

And as the two detectives drove, Millet couldn’t help but wonder how they were ever going to find who murdered James Holland. There was hardly much dirt on him, at least not without deeply searching, so the motive of the murderer would be hard to figure out. Unless…

Millet glanced at Derrick Skillet, the man silent in his driving as his face took on the look of thinking, or someone trying to understand through logic and reasoning. She shook her head with a slight smile before it fell as she sighed, turning to look out the window. She scowled. She wondered when she’d ever stop being car sick.

----

Present Year / August 14th / 8:28 AM

Aster was brought in for questioning soon after the detectives arrived on scene and inspected it. He had come out of his state of shock enough so that he recognized the face of one Detective Derrick Skillet, a man who had before closely worked with cases around the area, and was actually quite famous for his work.

“Please, take a seat here,” he said, voice strangely level as he gestured to the two chairs he had readied for them as he sat down in his own seat. He let out a breath, closing his eyes as the two detectives gazed at him. He was going to be questioned. About his brother’s death.

Yeah, this was definitely going to go great, he thought sarcastically, trying to keep the image of his dead brother out of his mind.

“Hello, I’m Detective Miller Connor, and this is Detective Derrick Skillet,” the woman introduced, shaking Aster’s hand.

Aster didn’t even try for a smile, and instead opted to stay as stone faced as he could. “Uh, hi, my name’s Aster Holland. Nice ta meet ya.” Though it would have been better had the circumstances been different.

“The brother of the victim, correct?” the man - Skillet - asked. Aster nodded. “Alright, well we have some questions we wanted to ask you if you’d be willing to cooperate,” he said as he took to leaning forward, elbows on thighs as he looked at Aster with professional eyes.

“Of course,” Aster breathed. He really didn’t want to break down or something, but he would try to answer as best he could.

The two detectives nodded, and Connor was the first to ask. “How did you come across the body of your brother?” Aster tried not to flinch at the bluntness of the question.

“Well,” he started. “I woke up, changed, and heard someone, er, Lily, James’s fiancé, scream down the hall, so I went to check it out and...” Aster blinked as he tried to keep the image of his dead brother away. “...I had thought it was a prank, since he always liked to trick me since we were little, but...” Not trusting himself to go on, he shrugged in a ‘you know the rest’ manner. Detective Connor nodded.

“Did you notice anything strange about your brother or people around him recently before today?” Aster thought about the past few days, searching his memories.

“Er, well, I don’t think so; he pranked me more often this week than others, but other than that, I don’t think anything was out of the ordinary. He fired someone, maybe, at his workplace the other day.” There was a twitch in Detective Skillet’s eyebrow at that.

“Do you know the specifics of the person he fired?” the man asked. Aster scrunched up his eyebrows in thought.

“I know his last name was Denivar, thought it was a cool name is why I remember it, but his first name was sorta plain so I don’t remember that.”

Aster barely noticed the little nod that Skillet gave Connor as the woman asked next, eyes almost boring into him for information. “You keep mentioning these pranks; did this affect your relationship with your brother at all? I’m assuming both of you are close if you two joke with one another.”

Aster shifted uncomfortably in the scrutiny of the two detectives. “I mean, I guess,” he murmured before saying more clearly, “He and I are close, you could say that, but we didn’t particularly like each other much. Of course, brotherly love and all, family, blah blah, but, he was the one who always picked on me. Made me feel terrible every day at some point back when I was younger. I was always so humiliated -” He blinked, before rubbing the back of his neck. “Ah, sorry, I went off on a tangent, sorry, Detectives. I shouldn’t do that about my brother. I really do, in the end, love him, I suppose.”

Detective Connor shot him a small smile of possibly comfort, though it looked fake as her eyes seemed to be calculating something at a speed of Mach 20. Detective Skillet was silent as well, rubbing his chin before he pulled his phone out. “Well, we thank you for your cooperation; we weren’t allowed to ask of Lily Johanson since she’s still in shock.” Makes sense, Aster thought to himself, remembering the trembling girl. “May we have your contact information for later reference?”

“Of course,” Aster said as he listed off his number and email address to the man who typed it quickly into his phone. After a couple last regards and words of farewell and thanks, the detectives left Aster who decidedly stayed sitting where he was, left to his thoughts and musings.

He put his head in his hands, and cried.

----

2 years ago / November 17th / 7:50 AM / Monday

Derrick Skillet was not a morning person, and the only way he’d survive a morning without being an extremely disgruntled man was if he had coffee. So like any other day, he went down to the kitchen and to the coffee machine, and as he walked down the steps to the first floor, he imagined his daughter’s welcoming smile. Ah, yes, his wonderful, most beautiful daughter. She was the light of his life, his world, and his whole d*mn universe. Monika.

She was another person he couldn’t survive mornings without. Unlike her father, Monika was the brightest and most happy girl in the mornings, so she was always there to offer a smile to Derrick in the place of a wife long gone.

Derrick, once off the stairs, moved toward the kitchen and walked in, but found the silence he was met with strange. Where was the usual sweet “Good morning, dad; how grumpy are you today and what should I do to fix that?” He blinked as he glanced around the kitchen, tidy, and unused since the night before.

“Darn,” he muttered under his breath. “Did she have a morning class today?” He scratched his head, a bit disappointed, as he went over to the coffee machine, and brewing the magical concoction coffee was, his thoughts paused the briefest moment. No...that’s not right, he realized. I’m certain Monika’s morning classes are on Tuesday to Thursday. He stared at the dark liquid in its container. Sleeping in? An appointment with a friend? What could it have been that Monika wasn’t there to say good morning to her daddy?

He sighed, taking a mug and filling it with coffee. She’s a big girl; she has her own life, I’m sure, he reasoned. I shouldn’t worry my head over the fact that she’s not here...He took a sip before groaning, frustrated. GAH! I can’t help it! I must know what my daughter is up to! He realized how blessed he was to have such a wonderful daughter, a daughter who didn’t mind him helicopter parenting her, a daughter who didn’t mind him even when he was “overbearing.”

So, bringing the coffee with him as he sat at the dining table, he switched his phone on, and texted his daughter. After five minutes without an answer, he found himself getting restless. He grumbled, as he took another long slurp of his coffee, and thought better of sending another text and instead rang the phone. He could only stare at his phone in worry when Monika didn’t pick up. Did she really sleep in? My morning sun, Nika?

He tapped his mug before deciding it wouldn’t hurt to go check on his probably sleeping daughter. He stood, and along the way, he took a glance at the shoe rack and found that indeed, Monika’s shoes were there. I suppose she really is sleeping then, he thought to himself as he walked up the stairs, wood creaking under his weight. Had she been awake, she would have answered the phone. Unless she’s angry with me for something, though she rarely is.

But she was also rarely asleep as late as today.

And something was bothering Derrick. Was it the way Monika had looked at him the night before? No...it wasn’t out of the ordinary, not the smile. But there was something strange about the image of Monika in his memory. Derrick quickened his pace and soon found himself in front of the door.

‘Hey, dad?’

Derrick turned to his daughter with a smile. “Yes, Nika?”

She smiled brightly. ‘Love you!’ She ducked her head with a giggle and ran up the stairs. Derrick’s laughter boomed throughout the house as he called to her how sweet and grown she’s become.

“Goodnight, dad!” she called from up the stairs.

“Goodnight, Nika!”

“Love you.”

Derrick turned away, smiling to himself as he kept the smiling face of his daughter at the forefront of his mind. A beautiful smile as always, the same as the last.

Derrick knocked on the door softly. There was no answer.

But was there something strange going on with her eyes? wondered Derrick. It was almost as if -

Derrick turned the knob, but it stuck. It was locked.

Nika never locked her door. Not on Derrick. Not on her daddy.

-almost as if she was holding back tears.

“Nika?” Derrick rattled the doorknob, desperately, breath quickening, lungs and heart tightening. No, no, no, no -- “Nika - please, I - open the door, Nika!” He felt a need to cry as he continued to bang, fumbling with his hand, his fingers that suddenly shook with such vigor as the cup slipped from his hand, shattering, liquid spilling and splashing. But he didn’t cry. He needed to calm down because surely -

-surely his morning sun wouldn’t die?

----

1 year ago / November 17th / 9:29 PM

Derrick walked away from the cemetery, breath fogging white as he breathed. It was a cold November this year, and he wondered if his Monika was warm up in heaven. Surely the angels offered her a mug of hot chocolate, a warm blanket, and a fine fireplace to stay by. He smiled sadly as he kept the image of angels protecting his daughter in his mind. He imagined her brighter than the halos around the winged people, and imagined her to be blinding to even the holy. As bright as the sun.

He still couldn’t understand, as good or bad of a detective people said he was, he just didn’t get why. Why did she kill herself? What was hurting her so much she had to leave? What was hurting her so much that she couldn’t tell daddy?

And what a failure of a detective he was, he thought to himself as he sat down in his car. A failure of a father too, he added. He chuckled, but it held no mirth. A failure indeed.

He drove off into the night. It was your fault, a voice whispered. He slowed the car as he spotted a red light ahead. She hated you. She didn’t trust daddy. Daddy isn’t reliable enough. She wished you died instead of your wife. She wanted to meet her mommy rather than stay with you. He slammed the accelerator, and sped off on the highway as he drove to his house - no longer a home, no his home was with Monika, but she was dead and he had no home.

And he felt cold. Empty. He horribly wished that Monika was killed instead, with a gunshot, so that he would have someone to blame. Someone to find and put to court. Someone to punish. So that he didn’t have to feel so useless. He wanted to be able to do something about it, anything, but there was no one to blame but Monika’s rope that hung from the ceiling that horrid morning, and what could Derrick do to make the rope regret what it did?

Nothing.

Nothing...

Nothing at all?

----

1 year ago / December 27th / 4:00 PM

Millet stared, wide eyed as she saw Detective Skillet knock on her door through the camera. “Skillet? What could he want during my time off?”

“Mama, is that your friend?”

Millet turned to her seven year old and ruffled his head. “Yes he is, now go to daddy while I get the door, alright sweetie?”

Charles nodded, head bobbing up and down as if taking on a grave mission. “Okay, mama!” He scampered off, hollering for his dad as Millet smiled after his small figure. She turned and looked back at the camera, smile dropping a bit as she noticed the strange glint in her coworker’s eyes, though it wasn’t the clearest through a sucky security cam.

“Well, I suppose I’ll know why he’s here when I ask,” she murmured as she went to the door and opened it, revealing a tall man with a thick insulation jacket on. She put her hand on her hip as he nodded in greeting. “And what do I owe the pleasure of my senior detective coming to my house during my break?”

Skillet didn’t quirk an eyebrow like she expected he would, nor did he say some snarky joke, rather, he stared at her, blinking slowly and only then did she notice the deep bags under his eyes.

“Er, I mean, do you want to come in? If it’s about work, it’s better discussed with some hot cocoa than out here in the cold right?” Millet moved, opening the door wider and silently, the solemn man welcomed himself in. She gauged from his grim expression and tired eyes that the visit wasn’t for pleasantry, so she figured they’d head to her home “office” where she kept all her files.

“Hey, Honey - oh hello, Derrick!” Jack called out from the living room, spotting them as they passed. Millet’s husband waved only to get a simple nod back. “He here for work? Thought you had none this week.” Millet could only shrug and make a weird face because honestly, she had no clue.

“We’ll just be in my office; have fun with the kids,” she said with a salute to which Jack laughed at before saying something in agreement, though at that point, she and Derrick were already in her office. She closed the door behind them and gestured for the man to sit while she sat on another chair. She raised an eyebrow. “So? What’s this about, sir?”

Skillet looked at her for a long second before pulling something out from between his armpit - a folder. “Evidence,” the man murmured before looking up at Millet with something glimmering in his eyes. “You have a wonderful family, Detective Connor.” Millet tried to be nonchalant about it, but she couldn’t help but feel her chest puff up a bit in happy pride. It was something she was grateful for - a family such as her own.

“Why thank you, Detective Skillet,” she said with a soft smile. “I certainly love them a whole lot.” Skillet looked at her for a while, and noticing the glazed look, she realized she didn’t know much about Skillet’s family. She hasn’t heard much about them at all, really, and now she was a bit curious. Her heart dropped a bit when she noticed the grieving glint of the man’s eyes. She frowned. “Did something happen, Detective?”

To her surprise, the man laughed lightly, but she could tell it was in a sarcastic way.

“Something has happened a long time ago, Connor. A year ago, ‘something’ happened,” he answered. There was a silence that enveloped them before he said quietly, “My daughter committed suicide. Kept under wraps for my sake; didn’t want it to be a public manner. She wouldn’t have wanted her...death to be publicized.” Millet gasped a bit, eyes wide.

“I...” She couldn’t even begin to comprehend how much pain her co worker must have gone through. She certainly wouldn’t have been able to live with herself had Charles, her dear baby were to… She spoke softly. “I’m sorry for what you went through, sir.” She was going to stop there, but the moment she caught his gaze, she saw deep regret raging behind them, resentment and frustration, and self loathing.

So she continued. “I am sure she is in a wonderful place and is watching over you, sir. It isn’t your fault, as it never is when there are at least two parties involved. There will always be blame to put on everyone near, so might as well not blame anyone.” Strange words for a detective, but in this situation, she decided it could, should be allowed.

Detective Skillet looked at her, and for a moment, the guilt in his eyes seemed to loosen its grip on him, and his eyes seemed to clear the briefest second. He looked away and down to the folder in his hands. Millet wasn’t happy with that, but perhaps her words reached him for even a second and even that is more than enough for now.

He cleared his throat, and she stiffened slightly, as he handed her the folder. “I have been doing digging recently.” Millet quirked an eyebrow.

“Digging on what exactly, Detective?” she asked as she fingered the manila folder. She turned it open, and her eyes widened, her throat closing a bit. “Monika Skillet - your daughter?” Millet looked up at the man, incredulous and confused, because why would he - but it hit her and hit her hard. The man was a father above everything else, as she a mother, and of course he, a detective, would dig in deeper into any case regarding her daughter’s suicide. He was looking for someone to blame other than himself or Monika.

“Detective Skillet, I -”

“Look through it first, and then tell me what you want,” he interrupted, and from his, well, almost determined gaze, she found herself complying, though reluctantly. However, as she continued to look through the different facts, different “evidence found” she couldn’t help but feel dread grow in the pit of her stomach. At the last page, scrawled messily, was a tiny annotation that read Proximate cause : James Holland

“Sir, I - ” Millet spluttered, shocked at what she read throughout the folder of papers. She looked at the man in front of him, trying to see if this was some sort of sick joke or prank, but she only found a stony face and observant eyes looking back at her. “Sir, with all due respect with you being my senior, but, the evidence here is hardly solid, and, and it seems almost as if...” She paused, looking at him. He didn’t flinch the slightest. “...almost as if you made this evidence up based on the vaguest of possibilities.”

----

Present year / June 1st / 7:45 AM

Derrick had immersed himself in detective work, taking on cases as much as he could handle, with Millet Connor following and supporting him as they went. It was actually the woman’s idea that they do this - to give Derrick something else to busy himself with, and as a way to cope. That day in December, Derrick remembered the moment Connor’s face dropped when she saw the contents in his folder. She had said that it wasn’t evidence. That if he were to submit it and use it, he’d be found out easily to have made up the evidence. To have been trying to frame someone else - James Holland - for the rape and murder of his daughter.

Connor talked “some sense” into him that day, telling him, explaining through logic, the forensics and the basics of detective work, that what was in that folder was a byproduct of his grief. He didn’t deny it, for some reason, and perhaps it’s because he knew deep down, that he had gone a bit crazy in his efforts to find someone to blame for his daughter’s death.

But he pleaded with Connor to keep his absurd thinking under wraps, for the sake of his career and his sanity. She promised him she would keep him on the right track. He promised her that he would talk to her when he started to feel the pain come back up to haunt him again. She would be his breaks and his therapist. So throughout the rest of the year and through new years and over, they’ve gone on cases and cases.

He found himself gaining recognition, for he himself was an efficient detective in the face of keeping his pain hidden. It was still there, and he wondered if it’d ever go away. He knew it never would, but he never thought it coherently, nor did he ever admit it out loud. So he hid it, almost like a child hiding a cookie behind his back, from Connor, and soon he was just as efficient in hiding it as he was in his job.

Soon, Connor stopped fretting over him and instead started to admire him again. Fooled.

But Derrick decided it was alright. He might have been grieving still, but that did not mean he would try to pull a stunt as he did back in December. No, that was simply an after-effect of too much thinking, too much dwelling, and thankfully, he found himself too busy recently for such time.

So he was safe. People around him would be safe. His conscience would be safe, and so would his daughter up in Heaven.

He was a detective, and a father still. He would stay in the light, and if not for his work, then certainly for his daughter.

Certainly.

----

Present year / August 1st / 6:20 PM

He was only looking through past case files, looking for one more recently that he had accidentally misplaced, so when he came across the “fake folder,” he was shocked. Derrick slipped the folder out of his cabinet, shaking his head at his past self. Grief, he mused. How frightening it can make a man go off the wrong end. He moved to toss it into the trash, but the corner of a certain page stuck out.

He saw the scribbled handwriting, so badly and quickly written that he could barely recognize it as his own, saying the statement that James Holland was indirectly the cause of his daughter’s death. Derrick frowned at that. He’s heard of James Holland often, as the heir to Hills Corps, but he barely knew much about him.

He was slightly curious as to how his addled mind had even come up with such a seemingly random accusation. Derrick put a hand to the folder, about to open it but hesitated. Would it really be wise to reopen something compiled by a man who had lost sanity from grief? He realized, perhaps not, but what harm could it cause anyway? He was of sound mind, sounder than ever before, and he could think logically.

His daughter, his sun, her death still weighed heavily in his heart and his mind, and he still felt it banging against his skull, like waves desperately crashing against a dam wanting out.

But he was sure a little curiosity wouldn’t hurt. A tiny peek.

But he forgot, of course, in that moment - how stupid of a mistake stupid stupid - that curiosity was what killed the cat.

------------------------------------------------

Present year / August 12th / 8:09 PM

Lily sobbed in the silence of her room as she held her phone to her ear, hands trembling as the man on the other side told her to kill her betrothed, James Holland.

“Please,” she implored, choking on her tears, tears of utter and unadulterated fear. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why?” the man echoed, voice sounding confused. “Well, wouldn’t you kill a man who has done horrible deeds?” She didn’t say anything for something was caught in her throat as tears continued to stream down her cheeks. “Well, you must know what you have to do - if you don’t kill the man, the one you really do love might die, no?”

No, no, no no no not Aster, her mind repeated for the fifth time that hour. “Don’t kill him - pl - please - ”

“I don’t want to, for Holland’s brother hasn’t done anything wrong as far as I or the media know,” the man whispered, almost as if talking to himself. “But I will do what I can to get what I want done, and you, miss, are the only person I can use.”

“But why me?” she asked, voice almost like a barely audible squeak. The line was silent for a moment before the man answered.

“You helped James, didn’t you?”

Her breath caught in her throat, a new fear overtaking her. Did this man know…?

“You helped James kill my Sun.” She blinked, her vision blurred from tears. His son? I don’t remember killing any - The man made a strange noise, something that made her blood chill and her heart drop further than it already was. She wanted to so strongly deny the terrible accusation but deep down she did feel guilty. Perhaps not for killing this man’s son, but for killing that one, poor girl -

“You too deserve to see the life of a love taken away from you. Who better to ask to kill James than you, Lily?”

----------------------------------------

Present year / August 15th / 3:00 AM - the day after James Holland’s murder

Derrick felt like he should be trembling, crying, and sobbing, but he did none of that. Instead he only stared silently at the picture in his hands. It was a picture of the Sun, the brightest star of the day, and the star that gave the moon its luster at night. He knew the Sun was dim today. He felt her dread fill up the room about him through the window and from the sky. He felt numb.

“I tried to stop,” he admitted. “I called Lily back, told her not to do it, to tell her to stop and that I would turn myself in.” He chuckled, a hollow sound with nothing but empty numbness to it. “But she had killed James already. She’d already done it and it’s my fault,” he said to the picture. Then there was a spark, a spark of something - anger, and he clenched at the image of her. “But James, he raped you, he hurt you, and Lily helped him silence you. Forgery is one of Lily’s specialties, I found out after asking her about it.

“No wonder your suicide note felt lacking,” Derrick remarked. He felt something new as the anger subsided. He felt dry tears prick at his eyes - tears that weren’t there physically, but mourned spiritually. “What a father I am for not noticing the difference in your handwriting. And how horrible I am for murdering a man in your name.

“Your pure, so very pure name.” The image did not answer him, and the Sun, the bright girl in the picture frame, only beamed up at him. He smiled back. “My bright bright child; would you forgive this old, addled man, and stay by him until his entrance to Hell?” He placed a notebook, a diary, a journal, an agenda of a man who planned the murder of another man, on his desk. The message to Aster Hollands was left unsent on his phone screen. He looked at the pills in his hand and paused. “Or shall I continue to live - will you stay by me even in prison?

“Or perhaps I shall receive the death penalty either way...” Again, the image did not answer him, and the Sun, his daughter, only smiled kindly up to him. He sobbed, and it felt as though the dam of tears was torn down. “I won’t kill myself,” he said silently, shoulders shaking as he cried. He dropped the pills to the ground, and left it there. He clutched the picture, bringing it to his chest, holding on to it like a lifeline, for what is man without his sunlight if not already dead?

“I’ll live as long as I can, suffer however much I need to, just please, dear Nika,” he said with shuddering breaths. “Forgive this failed father of your’s and be happy in Heaven, my dear.”

And he cried, he did, and he continued to cry as the man who held the sun in his arms until the moment he was taken in for crime. He held the sun, and he held her as he never could again since the day she was killed.

This is the story of a poor man and a poor daughter, a man and his Sun and their end.