The Art of Wealth: I Became a Billionaire Chapter 4: More Than Mourning

The suit didn't fit quite right.

Alex stood in front of the mirror, buttoning the last of his father's old black blazers. It clung tightly across the chest, with years of wear and a fra that looked slimr, but it was all he had. The only proper thing to wear to bury the man who had worn it to job interviews, church, and family events with that familiar quiet pride.

His hands trembled slightly as he adjusted the tie.

It felt surreal.

It wasn't even 72 hours ago that they were talking about finally catching a break. About how things were looking up. About how his job would make his father smile again.

Now, he was dressing for a funeral.

The house was silent. Even Emma, who's always humming or sneezing or moving about, sat quietly in her room. Sarah had co in early, handling the calls, the arrangents, the condolences. She was already outside with the car.

Alex took one last look in the mirror, then whispered:

"You deserved better."

"..."

The cetery was quiet. The clouds were gray. It hadn't rained, but the air carried a weight that looked like it had, damp and heavy.

A small crowd had gathered. Not many. Just a few neighbors. An old friend from church. One of John Stone's forr coworkers who still had the decency to show up. The pastor stood at the head of the grave, his book in his hand, solemn but familiar, having buried half the neighborhood over the years.

Alex stood beside the casket with Emma on his right. The weight of grief settled across his shoulders like a second coat.

When the pastor asked if anyone would like to say sothing, silence answered at first. People shifted uncomfortably, waiting for soone to speak.

Then Alex stepped forward.

He cleared his throat, but the words got stuck. He looked down at the coffin, simple, oak, too light for a man who had carried so much.

He inhaled sharply.

"My father... wasn't a loud man. He didn't shout when he was angry, didn't boast when he was proud. He... endured."

A long pause.

"He carried pain he never talked about. I saw it. Every ti he'd sit at the edge of the bed, rubbing his temples. Every ti we had to eat less so I could pay school fees. Every ti Emma asked about Mum, and he changed the subject."

Alex's voice began to tremble, but he pushed through.

"I never got to tell him what I wanted to say. That I saw him. That I knew he was trying. That every sacrifice... I noticed."

Emma sniffled beside him.

"He wasn't perfect. But he was there. Every day. And I'll never forget that."

He stepped back.

No one else spoke.

The pastor muttered a few final prayers, and with solemn arms, the coffin was lowered.

Dust to dust.

Earth to earth.

The thud of soil hitting wood was one of the hardest sounds Alex had ever heard.

After the final goodbyes, the small crowd dispersed. So stayed around and t the bereaved with brief words of comfort and in polite tones. Others just nodded, the kind of nod that ant "I don't know what else to say."

Sarah pulled Emma gently toward the car.

"I'll take her ho," she whispered to Alex. "She needs rest."

Alex nodded numbly. " Yeah, sure. Thanks."

They left and he stayed behind.

That was when he noticed him.

A man in a black suit. Tall, broad-shouldered, older. He stood with his hands folded behind him; he had his eyes fixed on the grave as if morizing it.

Alex frowned.

He hadn't seen him during the service.

"Can I help you?" Alex asked with a low voice.

The man didn't look at him. "No. I ca to pay my respects."

Alex looked him over. "You knew him?"

The man nodded slowly. "Your father was a good man."

Alex stared at him. There was sothing so familiar in his voice, sothing he just couldn't place. He tried to search the man's face, but it was not readable. Calm, composed.

"You were friends?" Alex asked, more curious now.

There was a long pause before the man spoke again. With a voice that carried an eerie calm.

"Good n don't always wear dals or command attention. Sotis... they carry pain in silence, raise children in empty pockets, and still teach them dignity. That was your father."

Alex blinked, caught off guard by the depth of the words.

The man looked at him now. His eyes were sharp. Deep brown. Wise.

"Rember this: So n fight wars on foreign soil. Others fight them in the kitchen, at the dinner table, and in their sleep. Don't ever underestimate the ones who stayed."

Alex opened his mouth, but the man was already turning.

"Wait—"

But he walked away.

Alex stood there, frozen, trying to rember where he had seen that man before. The voice. The posture. The presence.

It stirred sothing buried in his mory, like a whisper from years ago.

But before he could place it, the man disappeared past the gates of the cetery.

And Alex was alone again, with silence, with grief, and with a mystery that had just started to breathe.

The words echoed in his mind, none was settling in its precision.

"So n fight wars in their sleep..."

Why did it feel like more than a eulogy? Like a ssage. A warning. A puzzle left on purpose.

He knelt beside the grave briefly, while running his fingers through the dirt. His father had secrets, he always had, but Alex had convinced himself they were the kind you bury to survive, not the kind that might get you killed.

A cold wind stirred the trees. The cetery stretched around him, quiet again, the living gone and the dead silent.

He stood and brushed off his hands. Then he heard it, footsteps. Slow, deliberate.

For a mont, he thought the man had returned.

But the voice that followed was younger. Familiar.

"When I heard it first," it said, soft and filled with sothing like guilt, "I couldn't believe it. Not until now, standing here." Elliot stepped into view, hands in his pockets, eyes on the grave. "I'm... so sorry, man."

Alex's expression didn't soften. Not right away.

"You don't have to feel sorry for ," he said quietly. "Worry more about yourself."

Elliot gave a dry chuckle, not unkind. "Still sharp."

Silence settled between them, heavy and unfinished.

They hadn't really seen each other in months.

Not since the boy who used to dream in algorithms began to drift, first from Alex, then from Sarah, and finally into sothing darker.

Elliot, who once built entire worlds on a keyboard, now lived in the shadows of the digital dark.

The whispers were there: cyber thefts, untraceable money trails, contracts with faces no one ever saw.

Whatever Elliot was into now... it wasn't the kind of thing you talked about in daylight.

"That guy who showed up after everyone left," Elliot said, breaking the silence. "He didn't look like so grieving friend. He looked like he was checking sothing."

Alex nodded slowly. "He knew my father. Or said he did."

Elliot tilted his head. "Yeah? You believe him?"

A pause.

"Alright, if you say so, but do you think there's more to it?" he asked quietly. "I don't know, man...Your dad, he wasn't the type to just collapse like that."

"I an," Alex added with a shrug that's definitely half-hearted, "he was tired. Old. Maybe that's all."

Elliot looked at him sharply. "You think it just happened?"

Alex turned. "Yeah. Still... it's over now."

He started walking off, purposely leaving the question unfinished.

"..."