It was a Sunday afternoon, the tulips blooming and the clouds as white as snow. A casket laid before Callan with a single white rose on its cover. The people around him dressed in all manner of black stood in silence while a priest performed the usual funeral rites. He stared at the ground and could only think of himself rather than the man that lay in the wooden box. “That will be me” he thought. He thought he was being selfish but couldn’t think of anything else as the priest blessed the hole and the dirt slowly filled it leaving a dark brown patch in the field.
The car ride home was as silent as the ceremony. The house was no different. There was an abundance of leather chairs, soft carpet, and enough lamps to fill an antique store. Callan explored the estate with a vague curiosity. He had lived there for years but Callan only felt everything to be a different world than the one he had remembered in his head.
As Callan rummaged through old boxes of memorabilia stored in the closet he found an old photo of his dad. The uncanny resemblance was like looking into a mirror and gazing into a past life he never lived. He quickly put it away and left the house crying. He later refused the inheritance to the estate and it was sold to the public for auction.
Several years had passed and Callan moved on with his life. He graduated college, married, had a couple kids, the usual. Every now and then he would walk his kids to school and they would pass by his old parents’ estate. He heard that it went through multiple owners and it now lay abandoned for anyone to buy. It was never maintained by anyone yet looked exactly like he had left it all those years ago. Callan continued walking by that old house until he died.