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The sky is a large canvas of light blues and yellows—clouds across the horizon. Trees resting at the bottom—a group of birds having flown away. The Sun, bright as it usually is.
Beautiful, if I were to describe it with one word.
“BranzyCraft.”
“Yes, Clown?”
“Have I ever mentioned how beautiful your eyes look, highlighted by the sunlight?”
“You have, far too many times,” he replies, his voice carrying that familiar tone.
“I miss you.”
No reply.
Looking down, the warmth vanishes. I merely stare at the stone plate resting in the dirt. Moss and grass have overgrown the edges, partially obscuring the name—Branzy Cello—engraved into the cold rock. A name painful to even try to say.
I stand up, adjusting the grip on my scythe. I pull my jester mask firmly back over my face, forcing my posture into the rigid, terrifying silhouette the rest of the world fears. I have to be as confident and untouchable as I was before he was gone.
I missed the chance to say everything I adored about him. Oh, how I wish I had mentioned his brilliant, chaotic mind, the frantic clicking of his redstone, or the way he celebrated when a contraption of his actually worked.
How I wish I had mentioned everything but his purple eyes.