The case file was all a little too macabre, too many lines dedicated to detail spine-chilling description of the series of events,
accompanied by a small hand-drawn photo capturing the said incident. It was written so vividly, almost if he'd been there himself.
The case file of Narancia Ghriga's murder. He was far too pure to have been gone so soon.
Fugo hadn't been much more different after his passing, he'd have fewer of his conniptions, despite the fact grief should've made him angrier.
He supposed it just sort of sucked the energy out of him, in a way.
Narancia yet lingered constantly in his mind, visiting him in his dreams, thoughts, nightmares-
almost as if he'd placed some stupid curse on him as a ghost, to make him riddled with guilt. He swore, he'd never after had a moment to feel unencumbered, it was rather exhausting.
But no amount of hoping, crying, pleading, praying, begging, mourning, or thinking would change the future, he'd tried- so hard, so many times. To no avail, of course. And so, Fugo opened his eyes, done with contemplating, and blinked away the remainder of his sleep, pushing the covers away, frowning at the abandon the warmth and comfort of his bedsheets, he stepped on the wooden floors of his house, a small creak audible from his mattress, the muffled pitter-patter of warm rain in the distance.
"Great," he groaned, "Rain. Perfect."
He and the gang visited Bruno, Abbacchio, and Narancia's resting places together often, at least monthly.
It was rather warm, for it to be raining, but still quite chilly, for a Spring Storm.
He put on casual attire followed with a light jacket, and headed out the door, grabbing a bouquet arranged in a sunset of warm oranges and yellows, and ducked into the roof of his car, revved up the engine, and drove off.