Miguel turned towards Grandpa, his voice tinged with a mix of frustration and discomfort.

"Well of one Peter came late, and Malachi had to deliver the eulogy."

Malachi, looking a bit pale, was too nervous to tell gramps the truth.

He shifted on his feet, awaiting Grandpa's reaction.

Grandpa's sharp eyes, filled with the wisdom of countless years, settled on Malachi.

He uttered a thoughtful "Hmm," before breaking into a knowing smile.

"I'm not even surprised.

Your father was Enoch, after all."

Miguel seized the opportunity to tease, his tone turning playful.

"So Gramps, dad was your favorite , wasn't he ?"

Grandpa snorted loudly, flapping his lips in a mock show of indignation.

"No, I didn't have favorites.

I love all my kids equally."

Malachi couldn't hold back his smirk, his skepticism evident.

"Sure," he replied, drawing out the word.

Grandpa, with a mischievous glint in his eye, tightened his grip on Malachi's hand.

Malachi winced slightly, reacting to the pressure, a mixture of surprise and amusement crossing his face.

"Boy!" he exclaimed, the word dripping with affectionate reprimand.

Laughter filled the room, a rare moment of joy amidst the somber occasion.

But the laughter was abruptly cut short when Grandpa started to cough, a deep, wrenching sound that seemed to shake his entire frail form.

Malachi's smile vanished as he watched Grandpa intently, his concern growing with each ragged breath.

Grandpa's hand, trembling slightly, covered his mouth.

When he withdrew it, he stared at his palm for a long while, his expression darkening.

Malachi's senses picked up the faint, metallic scent of blood lingering in the air.

His heart pounded as his eyes met Grandpa's, a silent exchange of shared worry.

Miguel looked over with concern etched across his face and asked, "Gramps, you good?"

Grandpa waved his hand dismissively, his voice gruff but reassuring.

"Yeah, I'll live."

Yet, Malachi felt a deep unease.

His senses, always sharp, were picking up subtle signs that contradicted Grandpa's words.

The slightly sour smell of sweat that clung to Grandpa's clothes, the faint pallor of his skin, and the slight tremor in his voice all painted a different picture.

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The air seemed denser somehow, weighted with the scent of impending mortality that only Malachi's heightened senses seemed to detect.

"Alright, boys, now down to business," Grandpa announced, his voice suddenly more authoritative.

The siblings leaned in, eager to hear what he had to say.

But Grandpa's eyes narrowed as they edged too close

"Now, here's the deal," Grandpa continued, shifting into a more serious tone.

"I need you two to attend a soiree on my behalf.

Represent our side of the clan for me.

You know my legs are useless these days."

Malachi inquired with a hint of skepticism, "Why do you wish for us to attend a dance party?"

Grandfather laughed softly and replied, "In case you're curious, it's a ball to commemorate the success of the three major clans in severing our ties with the UK."

Miguel clapped his hands together, rubbing them with enthusiasm, and said, "Gramp, you don't need to explain any further."

Meanwhile, Malachi, reluctant to leave the comfort of home, questioned, "So, why are we involved?"

Gramps shifted further up in the bed, exuding a quiet confidence.

"It has to be the two of you," he began, his gaze steady and penetrating.

"Because I expect big things from the both of you ."

He paused, his eyes drifting toward the window, taking in the island's expanse.

"Take Deon with you.

Don't want to give him another reason to hate you."

Malachi looked at Gramps with a surprised expression, eyebrows raised slightly in intrigue.

"Oh, you knew?"

Gramps chuckled, the sound rich with age and wisdom. "I may be old, but I ain't cold."

Miguel barked out a laugh, gesturing with his hand in confusion.

"What does that even mean?"

Gramps looked at him with twinkling eyes.

"When you grow some more, you'll understand."

Then Miguel leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Talk to Mal about growing."

Malachi's brow furrowed in confusion. "What?"

Miguel hesitated, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips.

"Hm? Did you say something?" he deflected, trying to mask his earlier comment.

Shuffling closer, he lowered his voice, his words deliberate and heavy with meaning.

"This isn't just about showing up.

The island needs to see the next generation of Shakas.

Our people are looking for hope. They need to see you—our future—standing tall."

Grandpa's gaze lingered on their faces, his eyes intense.

"This is about ushering in a new age, a new era of saints who carry the torch of our legacy.

Your presence symbolizes resilience and continuity.

It's about proving to the island that our spirit endures through you."

"This is bigger than us, bigger than any one person.

It's about the future of our people.

And that future, my children, begins with you."

Grandpa's eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief as he looked at Malachi.

"You can even take your girlfriend with you," he suggested, his tone implying more than the words alone.

Malachi's eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

"I don't have a girlfriend," he said, the bewilderment clear in his voice.

Miguel snapped his fingers, his eyes lighting up with recognition.

"Oh, he's talking about Bianca," he said, a grin spreading across his face.

Malachi's cheeks flushed with a mix of frustration and embarrassment.

"She's just a friend, not my girlfriend," he insisted, the words coming out hurriedly.

Grandpa's smirk widened, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Right, just a friend.

And I'm an astronaut."

Before Malachi could respond, Grandpa's expression softened, and his tone turned wistful.

"You know, it reminds me of the time your Grandma and I..."

Malachi cut him off, "Grandpa, we get it, you and Grandma were young and reckless.

We don't need the details."

Grandpa seemed to deflate slightly.

"Well, alright, alright," he mumbled, rubbing his chin.

"Just thought I'd share a few stories from the good old days."

He trailed off, the silence growing heavy. Malachi stared at his feet, a knot of tension forming in his chest.

Miguel, ever the quieter one, sat beside him, his eyes downcast.

Finally, grandpa broke the silence, his voice thick with emotion.

Gramps looked up, his voice heavy with emotion.

"I miss my son.

I miss him terribly," he murmured, as a tear slowly snaked down his cheek.

Malachi and Miguel exchanged a glance.

There was a shared understanding in their eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the elephant in the room, the grief that lingered like a heavy fog.

Miguel, ever the sensitive one, reached for grandpa's hand.

"We miss him too, Grandpa," he murmured, his voice barely audible.

Malachi nodded, his own voice catching in his throat.

He wished he could say more, could offer his grandfather some comfort, but the words wouldn't come.

All he could do was sit there, in the quiet, with the weight of their shared loss pressing down on them.

To be continued.…