Work Text:
Petrichor. Riz is nine and he knows this word; it’s the smell of rain on soil. His dad taught him that word – among many others – but right now it’s the most pertinent as the warm rain drizzles over the small gathering of mourners at Cravencroft Cemetery. A lump forms in his throat and he clings to his mom, who continually weeps.
Dad…
His dad isn’t here. He should be. He should be in the casket that’s being lowered into the grave, but he’s not. He should be alive, but he’s not. It’s unfair; just an empty casket and empty hearts.