The third of February was a day Horace would never forget, even if he ever wanted to. It was late evening, and the the colonial city of Dawnton was quiet. The ice coated streets were empty, aside from a small group of coat-clad men and women. The conglomeration of faces, all be it diverse and different, all had something in common; the absolute look of sorrow on their face. Six men clad in absolute black carried a casket between them, it was painfully obvious, this was a funeral service. The man leading the carry of the casket looked perhaps the most miserable, his eyes were red and bloodshot and he looked as if he had been crying. He held the casket with one hand, his other clutching the little hand of a small toddler. The child didn't seem to be much older than three years old, clad in a long and fluffy pink coat, with a thick wool hat with earmuffs on. She clutched a rose in one hand, skipping alongside her father gleefully. She was perhaps the only one unaffected by the despair, she was the only one who didn't understand. She continued asking of they could go see mommy in the hospital later, she kept asking. The father, fighting to keep his tears back, told her that they would later, he promised they would.
The company arrived in the graveyard, slowly lowering the casket into the deep grave. The reverend began citing the appropriate prayers, but nobody seemed to pay attention. THey all looked to the little girl, and her heartbroken father with pity and sorrow. They simply stood there, looking at the casket. The child, sensing her fathers despair, reached over, embracing his arm tightly. She buried her face into him to comfort him, but it didn't seem to help. He was quiet, unresponsive, someplace else mentally. The service continued, and the casket was covered in dirt, and finally buried. As people began leaving, they simply stood there, the father and daughter. The little child still clutching the little, rose, bendt down to lay it atop the grave, before turning to her father;
"Is this person sleeping, daddy?" she asked, the look on her little face was puzzled. Her father simply nodded quietly, not really ready to speak much, the child continued though.
"Then sing her a lullaby! I always sleep good when you sing daddy." She exclaimed happily, as if to comfort him. The man tilted his head upwards slowly, taking in a deep inhale. He didn't want to sing, not to anyone ever again. He had always sung for her, she had loved it, but she was gone, and he was alone. The girl tugged once more, as if edging him on. He wanted to scream, yell out, tell her the truth, but he couldn't. He couldn't see her cry, not now, not ever. And so, he sang.
"Regndråper faller og faller, tar fargane bort. Du e uendelig liten men håpet e stort. Eg høyrer til deg og sånn vil det alltid bli. Eg drømmar at snart e du hær og legg hånda di trygt i mi.."
He choked up, taking a moment to look down at his little baby before continuing, for her sake;
"Så fly som en fugl, lag deg en vei, så du kan komme heim til meg. Høyr på min sang, snart e du varm, du kan få sovne i mitt fang.. Du kan gå mange mil, om du veit ka du hvil, kor du høyrer til."
He hardly managed to let out the last few words, as his shaky and weak voice shivered. He sniffled, bending down to pick his little babygirl up into his arms. He hugged her to his chest, burying his head into her shoulder. She gently stroked his cheek with her gloved hands, flashing him a big smile. Horace glanced down at his sweet little girl, placing a kiss upon her forehead. The little girl looked to the grave, completely in the dark on her mothers fate. She asked a final question, in he soft, sweet voice.
"Why would somebody fly like a bird, daddy?"
"So they can be free, sweetheart. People can't always stick around forever, someday, we all have to fly on."
