Conner gave the smallest nod—acknowledgment, nothing more—then turned and spoke softly to someone who’d greeted him.
Vic watched him for a minute, chest tight with old hurt and new understanding.
Some people weren’t made to stay.
But others...others you fought for.
The minister wrapped up the short service with a generic prayer.A couple of the old-timers tossed handfuls of dirt onto the coffin.Grams stepped forwards and dropped a single white rose.
Vic couldn’t make himself move.
When it was over, people started drifting away, but Conner didn’t.He stood there a long moment, staring down at the dirt-covered box, jaw clenched so tight that Vic could see the muscle jumping.
Then Conner lifted his head and looked straight at him.
For a second, Vic thought he might come over.Say something.Anything.
Instead, Conner gave another short, sharp nod—this one feeling final—turned on his heel, and walked away.No words.No hug.No “See you around.”
Just gone.
Again.
Vic watched his brother’s back until he disappeared between the headstones, hands shoved deep in his pockets against the cold.
Grams squeezed his arm gently.“That’s the first time you’ve seen him since he was a boy.”
“Yeah,” Vic said, voice rough.“Different moms.Different lives.He got out as soon as he could.Can’t blame him.”
Grams was quiet for a long moment.“Some roots don’t hold,” she said softly.“Doesn’t mean they weren’t real while they lasted.”
Vic swallowed hard, eyes still on the spot where Conner had vanished.
He thought about all the nights Rosie had promised to get clean.All the times he’d dragged Vic and Conner to some dive bar gig like it was a family vacation.All the mornings after when one or both of them would wake up alone while Rosie slept off another bender.
Conner’s mom had been smart enough to run.She’d probably saved Conner following in Rosie’s footsteps.
Vic had stayed—chasing the music, chasing the high, chasing the ghost of the father who was never really there.
Now that ghost was in the ground, and Vic was still standing here trying to figure out what the hell came next.
He bent down, picked up a handful of cold dirt, and let it fall through his fingers onto his father’s coffin.
“Rest easy, old man,” he whispered, dusting the dirt from his fingers.“I hope you finally found whatever you were looking for.”
Then he turned, tucked Grams’ hand more securely in his arm, and walked her back to the car.
The past was buried.
Now he just had to figure out how to live with what was left.
***
The dirt was stillfresh on his father’s grave when Vic went back to work.
There was no dramatic mourning period, no weeks of sitting in the dark.He simply woke up the morning after the funeral, made Grams a quick breakfast, kissed her on the cheek, and drove to Blackbird Studios like it was any other day.Praying Meg would have work for him.
Because music had never failed him.
