not like the others

Hers was a name that he had taken pains to permanently sear into his mind, as thought of as his own name. Doggedly determined to remind himself, however excruciating the recollection of such a massive loss would be, of her existence. That she had been real, and had not been a product of his lonely mind. That, crucially, he had experienced, if only fleetingly, the tapestry of joy that could only be forged between a father and their child. A bond that transcended blood.

Reduced now to a ghost, captured in electronic form, lingering long after not a single atom of her existence-- her very reality-- remained. Filled with an urgency to see her again, navy-blue fingers are drawn together, retrieving from the golden shroud of projected information all around him the usual video snippet. Depicting a jubilant Gabriella being embraced by a hazel-eyed version of himself. In his grief, he had once questioned the ethics of preserving her likeness, permit the deceased the dignity he had denied them by capitalising on tragedy.

But what else was he to do? What card had he left to play, that he hadn't already tried? Left short on options, he picked the only path forwards; he dismissed the video clip, along with the rest of the hard-light images, encircling his head.

All so that he could stop and take stock of time, and what had been, regardless of the date.

Her laughs. Her sobs. Her screams.

Confronted by this, he yielded to the gravity of his own grief, his garnet gaze mellowing in the welcoming darkness of his laboratory as silence took hold. Within moments, with all momentum lost, he felt the weight of the day settle upon his shoulders, imposing him with a weight heavier than any battle he'd fought. For better or worse, he could still hear her voice, a melody of memories that -- hard as it was to listen to -- he welcomed with open arms as they danced and weaved through his mind, haunting and beautiful.

Distantly, he noticed a trend, how her laughter had a notable volume, how it had wanted to fill up the space of any room that she had ever entered.

And now it had stayed with him, mingling with the pain of her cries, in the final moments before the collapse.

Today, out of all days, he allowed himself to feel it all—the joy, the sorrow, the overwhelming grief. In quiet, in solitude, apart from others. For a rare moment, he allowed his mask of stoicism to slip, shelving the draw of duty and purpose to take time to grieve.

As a man clinging to the fragments of a shattered past.