The day of the memorial service, dark clouds hang low and thick in the air.  The normal sounds of birds singing and insects buzzing are muted, and a sort of heavy silence blankets the world.  It’s as if nature itself is grieving.  The memorial service is an enormous affair.  All eight of Jaejoong’s noonas, their spouses, and dozens of nieces and nephews are there.  Every co-worker from the school, every employee at the orphanage and animal shelter, even several nurses from the blood bank come to pay their respects.  Yunho stands stiff and silent at the front of the hall flanked by Jaejoong’s parents, quietly observing the crowds of guests.

Some of the mourners have chosen to wear white in the Buddhist tradition, though others have adopted the more western custom of black.  In combination with the bleak weather, the effect is a sombre monochromatic view, which Yunho finds slightly comforting; this way, the absence of colour from his life is less obvious.  Though, the lack of the one who brought colour to it is still just as sharp.

Off in one corner, Jaejoong’s best friend, his “other soul mate” as he liked to call him, Park Yoochun is a complete wreck, sobbing pitifully into his lover Kim Junsu’s shoulder.  Yunho envies him.  He wishes he could cry – could let the world hear and see and feel his pain – but the tears simply won’t come.  It’s as if that part of himself burned away in the crematory.

Once the service begins, many of Jaejoong’s noonas and friends offer eulogies and tributes, each speaking sincerely about how wonderful Jaejoong was.  Yoochun, who has penned lyrics to a beautiful song, intending to read them, cannot find his voice, and so his soul mate Junsu stands beside him, arm around his waist comfortingly, as he reads the words of devotion to a best friend taken too soon.  Yunho’s is the only dry eye in the building, aside from the ever-serene monks.  When finally he stands to deliver his own eulogy, the words sound flat…hollow.  Tinny and strained.  He quickly reads what he’s written and sits back down, aware of how insincere he’s just seemed.  But what do these people expect?  All the nice words and happy memories in the world won’t bring his love back.

The service ends, and Yunho dutifully makes his way toward the exit: the solemn statue offering thanks to everyone for attending.  He endures the sorrowful handshakes, the sympathetic looks, the offers of “please call us if you need anything.”  He won’t call.  They don’t have what he needs.  No one does.  But he thanks them civilly for the offers.  That’s what Jaejoong would have done.

The crowd steadily thins, and Yunho is