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The funeral. Edward stares straight ahead, hearing nothing: neither the music nor the murmur of the crowd. The man who believed in his words and helped him achieve his goal paid for it with his life. An equivalent exchange? Unfair.
“Brother?” Alphonse gently takes his older brother’s hand, but Edward does not respond. Only after some time does he turn his gaze — utterly vacant. It seems to Alphonse that Edward does not hear him, for he feels the emptiness in his brother’s eyes as they look through him, into the void. “Brother, why is she dancing?”
Noa, reminiscent of Rose from their homeland, loses herself in the dance. Her movements, though rhythmic, are sharp and jagged. Tears stream down her cheeks, yet she dances, out of pain, saying goodbye, escorting Alfons's soul on its final journey.
"It’s a tradition. The Romani believe that after death, a person’s soul goes to another world. A happy one, where there will be no sorrow or suffering." Someone present answers, and Edward, drawing a loud breath through his nose, tightly grips his younger brother’s hand.
Another world? All that's left is to hope that Heiderich will truly be better off there. There, the disease that he so stubbornly tried to hide won’t slowly consume him from within. But even this realization brings no comfort. A lump forms in Edward’s throat, and he forces himself to look at the tombstone with the name, to lower his gaze to the photograph, and almost chokes on the tightness in his chest. His heart constricts, a painful reminder that he, Edward, is still alive. The man who became so close in a short time is now only a memory. And a small, folded piece of paper, which Edward has not yet mustered the courage to read since he found it. Because for a long time, he couldn’t forget the sight of the lifeless, blood-soaked body of someone dear to him. And that expression on his face — Alfons Heiderich seemed glad to die. He was smiling...
Edward,
I don’t know how this will all end. I’m accustomed to relying on science, and what you told me defies any logical explanation. Your stories about another world you called home amused me, but if you had told anyone else, they would have thought you were insane. I don’t know why I believed you. I believed a man with a very vivid imagination. It wasn’t easy for me.
I remember how you would wake up in the middle of the night, screaming my name. My name, though it belonged to someone else — your brother. I remember the names you muttered in your delirium. Perhaps you really are a person from another world. Your stories left such an impression on me that I, a scientist, relented and believed. I believed in your dream of one day returning to your homeland.
You see, my illness is progressing, and one day I won’t be here. Perhaps very soon. But I had a goal to do something that would make me remembered in my world. That’s why I decided to do this. If everything really works out, then my memory will remain in the place you call home as well. Because in that other world, there is someone who will remember me.
Just don’t forget me, alright? This is so unscientific, what I’m about to do. But if you believe, why shouldn’t I? I’ll hope that everything works out for you, and you’ll keep the memories of me. Thank you for everything.
Your friend,
A.H.
The people disperse, but Edward remains rooted to the spot, tightly holding the hand of his younger brother. A gentle breeze ruffles his blond hair. Moments from his life flash before his eyes — first meeting, conversations; in his memory, Alfons Heiderich is alive, vibrant, and cheerful. But in reality, he is gone. And he will never return.
"He would want you to remember him," Noah says, but Edward doesn’t hear her. He is haunted by the thought that a person died because of him. "The dead live in our hearts."
The elder Elric releases his brother’s hand and slowly approaches the grave. Alphonse starts to follow, but Noah holds him back, saying that Edward simply needs time to say goodbye.
Fingers gently touch the photograph, and Edward traces the silhouette, pressing his lips tightly together. He fears touching it, as if it might burn him. There is so much he would have said, if only Heiderich were still alive. He was killed for someone else's dream. Now, as if to spite him, all the words catch in his throat. It hurts so much to lose someone close.
"I will never forget you," Edward manages to force out. His hand hovers in the air, and his fingers are gripped by a spasm.
A dead man has no need for apologies, and Elric knows that Alfons would not have accepted them. Because this is not Edward’s fault. Heiderich acted according to what his heart dictated.
The dead continue to live in our memories, in our souls. As long as the memories remain fresh, not gathering dust in the recesses of our minds, those who are no longer with us will never truly die. They will not fade into nothingness.
Edward slowly bows his head, closes his eyes, and feels like another's hand touch his shoulder, fingers gripping the fabric of his black mourning jacket. He thinks it is his brother and prepares to leave. But when he turns around, there is no one there, and this sensation vanishes, dissipating into thin air. Only silence remains, and the wind gently rustles his blond hair, warming his face with its gentle breeze.
"I will never forget..."