Asha hadn't thought much of her father coming home late. He was known to tutor students after class if they asked for his help. There were times he even decided to sleep at the school because he was too tired to walk home. She left food out for him and went to bed.

But when he hadn't come home by morning and his dinner was on the table, untouched, Asha got worried. In 17 years, he had never missed a single breakfast with her.

She went to the school first. It was too early for any students to be there, but he wasn't in his office, the teacher's room, or his classroom. She ran to the neighbors next. Maybe he had visited them, gotten tired late at night, and slept there. They wouldn't appreciate her pounding on their door so early in the morning, but Asha couldn't think about anything but finding her father. She tried not to panic. He was probably in the town somewhere. He was capable and strong. But still, Asha couldn't help but feel a sense of dread.

They hadn't seen him since that morning.

"Are you sure? He didn't stop by?" Asha was panting, sweat clinging to her forehead. "Maybe you heard him knocking on your door last night."

Mrs. Sullivan shook her head. She was groggy and confused, but sure that he hadn't come by last night. "I would have remembered, dear. Do you think he just went out this morning to get you a treat?"

Maybe.

Asha went to his favorite bakery, the grocery store, and the butcher's shop. No one had seen him. When the sun started coming up and people go wind that he was actually missing, they joined Asha on her search. Soon enough, she had a mass of people looking for him. He was loved in this town. He was always willing to lend a hand and all the kids adored him as their teacher. They scoured every inch of the village. Every nook and cranny, every home, every shop. Nothing. For two days, they looked for him. For two days everything in Asha's life was put on hold. For two days, Asha's world was crumbling beneath her feet.

Her father was a big man. He wasn't the most muscular man in the village, but he was big enough to intimidate a common thief from one of the kingdoms. Asha was starting to lose hope. She heard some people in town saying that he had probably run away because he couldn't handle being a single father anymore. She tried to keep her head clear and focused on him. She didn't even entertain the thought of him leaving on purpose. Anyone who knew him would laugh at the idea of him abandoning Asha. But she was terrified that something truly awful happened to him.

And then they found him. Deep in the woods, curled up on the ground. He was dead. His body was piled in a heap on the forest floor; his schoolbag was on the floor beside him, his books nearly falling out. It looked like he had just dropped to the ground.

The Sylvesters had found him. One of their sons, Mika, was in her class. Her father taught their other son, Jerome. They got a blanket from their home and wrapped up his body to carry him out of the woods. Asha was in the village square, stopping everyone that passed and asking them if they had seen her father.

It was like time stopped when she saw the Sylvesters walk out of the woods. She didn't see them holding her father's body at first. Then Asha saw their two sons carrying something in a white blanket. There were tears running down Mrs. Sylvester's cheeks. The men were somber, but she could tell the Jerome was trying to hold back tears. And her entire world went still.

Asha felt her blood flash between searing hot and freezing cold. Her heart stop beating. Her entire body felt so numb, she didn't even feel herself sink to her knees. The Sylvesters saw her and the pity in their eyes told her everything she needed to know. Asha vaguely recalled screaming into the air, begging them, anyone, that it wasn't her father. She was bent over, letting out gasping sobs. It was like she couldn't get enough air in her lungs, and her head was spinning so much she couldn't tell which way was up. Her worst fears had been realized. Her worst nightmare had come true.

Someone had lifted her up and walked her to their house. Her body and mind were so numb, she didn't even realize she was walking. They sat in her house, the people that loved him gathered around her. But Asha was numb. They kept handing her glasses of water and wanting to talk. They would tell her stories about his kindness, his selflessness, his tireless passion for his students. But Asha knew all that. She knew what a great man he was and how much he had done for this town. But she didn't want to talk. She wanted to scream. She wanted to dig her fingers into her scalp and feel her nails grating down her skin. She wanted to break every plate in her cupboard and every chair he had built with his own two hands. And she wanted to cry. She wanted to cry until there weren't any tears left. But Asha sat there, unable to lift a finger because if she allowed herself to let in an ounce of the anger thrumming through her veins, the entire village would go up in smoke.

They held his funeral just three days after they found him. The entire village spent two days building the pyre. They gathered to chop the wood for his cremation. People kept on touching Asha on the shoulder and told her what a great man he was. Her bloodshot eyes were raw from crying.

But the day of his cremation, Asha had the healers look at his body. Something about her father's death didn't sit well with her. Nobody could tell her what had happened. Why he had died. Asha had pressed the healers for some information. Anything to point her in some direction.

"I'm sorry. There is nothing on his body to indicate death," Sylvia said. She was sympathetic but firm in her diagnosis. She was the best healer in their village and the only person, besides Asha's father, that had studied outside of the town. Her parents were blacksmiths. They would make everything from pots to weapons. But that changed when her father got sick. They didn't have any proper healers in their village at the time. The best they could do was feed him some herbs they used for aches and pains and hope for the best. Sylvia spent months taking care of him. She would go to school and come straight home to look after him. But he was gone just four months later. After his death, Sylvia's mother fell into a deep depression. She stopped eating, stopped leaving the house. She didn't care for Sylvia who was finishing up her final year at school. Her mother passed away soon after. Almost like she had died of a broken heart.

After her mother's death, Sylvia had nothing keeping her here, so she left the village. She spent three years at a seminary of healers and menders to learn all she could to help those that were sick in their village. When she had learned everything there was to know, she came back. She knew now that her father's sickness was curable. If they had the knowledge and the supplies, he could have been saved. Her entire family could have been saved. So, she spent years training anyone who was willing to listen. Now, she had a group of healers working with her to train others and look after patients.

"You cannot tell me that there is nothing wrong with him," Asha said. "Healthy people don't just drop dead," she was desperate now. Asha had a lot of respect for Sylvia and trusted her, but she needed some answers. It was like an itch she couldn't scratch. It was more than just finding out what happened to her father. There was a loose thread in this world, and she needed to pull it. To unravel it and see where it goes.

"I don't know what to tell you Asha. He is completely healthy. It's like his heart just ... stopped beating. I can't explain it," Sylvia pulled her brown hair into a bun on top of her head. The stress of the case caused the wrinkles around her eyes to deepen. She gave Asha a sympathetic look, her eyes soft and comforting. But Asha knew that she was done. There was nothing else she could do or say.

"Thank you anyways. I appreciate you trying."

Sylvia nodded to her and covered her father's body. "We will get him prepared for the funeral," she said.

The pyre was simple – rows of wood stacked on top of each other. If there was one thing this town was good at, it was functionality. They covered her father with a white sheet and set him on top, covering his body with more wood. Asha spent the entire morning collecting flowers to decorate her father's body with. She wanted his last moment to be one of peace and beauty. Not pain and suffering.

Asha wore a red dress her father had bought her for her birthday last year. The top and the skirt were separate, so it showed just a sliver of her waist. The floor-length skirt was a deep red, the tailor probably spent a fortune on the dye, and was laced with gold details. The top was the same color as the gold detailing, and the entire back was a panel of lace. It was perfect. Sheer enough to turn heads but not be scandalous. It was probably too much for his funeral, but he had been so excited when he gave it to her.

"You deserve it, little one," he had said when she unwrapped it on her birthday. She fell in love with it the second she saw it. The fabric was so soft, and it fit like a glove. Asha couldn't keep the grin off her face as she felt the dress flare up as she twirled in it. But they couldn't afford it. He was struggling to make ends meet now that the winters were getting colder and the animals were disappearing.

She had protested the dress, telling him she didn't need it, that she would just return it behind his back. She tried to shove the box back in his hands, but he shook his head, his eyes sad. "Your mother would have loved it." And that was that. She couldn't argue with the sadness in his eyes. She knew that this dress was just as much a reminder of the woman he loved than it was for her. So, she kept it and vowed to only wear it on the most important occasions.

Asha tried not to break down as they arranged the flowers around her father's body. The sheet covered his face, but it didn't matter. She would never be able to get the image of his cold, lifeless eyes out of her head. She could feel everyone's eyes on her and knew they would be judging her response. If she cried too much, they would call her weak. If she didn't cry at all, they would whisper about how she didn't love her father. She could hear her father's voice in her ear telling her not to care what other people think. That people's true colors showed in moments of loss. So, Asha held her head high but refused to wipe away the tears that slipped down her cheeks.

Jerome Sylvester handed her a torch. He tried to hide his face, but it was obvious he was crying. Everyone her father had known and loved was here. She took the torch and set his body ablaze. Asha passed the torch to Jerome who spread the fire to another side of the pyre. One by one, everyone that had gathered for him took a turn.

He had taught her everything she had known. Taught her kindness and patience. Taught her to fight for what she believed in. Taught her that the people she loved would always be a part of her, no matter what.

Asha watched the fire spread over her father's body. She openly sobbed as her father reduced to ashes. One of her neighbors put their arms around her, pulling her in close.

"Will it ever stop hurting?" Asha asked. She didn't know who she was talking to. She just wanted the pain in her chest to go away. Just wanted to feel as whole as she did just a week ago. Nobody answered. Nobody had an answer.

It took hours for the fire to die out. So long that she was the only person left. But she was glad to have those few moments alone with him.

"I don't know if you can hear this. I don't know where you are," her voice was thick with grief. "But I want you to know that I love you.

"And that I will never forget you," she whispered.

"I am so grateful for everything you have done for me. You taught me to work hard and fight for what you want," she slid to her knees in front of his ashes. "To never fear pain or failure."

"You were always there for me. And I'm so sorry I wasn't there for you when you needed me the most," she sobbed.

Her dress was stained with her tears and she would have to spend hours scrubbing them out, but it was worth it. He never got to see her wear it, so Asha hoped he was watching. She thought about collecting his ashes and spreading them somewhere he would find peace. But she knew her father, and he loved this place. He loved these people. He would have been happy anywhere in their village. So, she let the breeze come in and take the ashes with it. His memory would be in the hearts of everyone in this village, and now he would always be a part of the place he called home.