PAUL ROCK

Rain blurred the world into shades of black and gray, drumming softly over a sea of umbrellas that crowded the open grave. The air smelled of wet grass and raw earth. The scent of endings. Cameras flashed from the edges of the crowd, their clicks too eager, too alive for a funeral. But he felt none of it.

From where Paul stood, they looked like actors rehearsing a tragedy. His bandmates lined up in designer coats and dark shades, stiff and polished even in the rain. Image over everything, just as always. His manager dabbed his eyes for the cameras, careful not to smudge the illusion. Even the priest’s voice cracked in that rehearsed way Paul knew too well.

It was strange, he thought, watching your own funeral and realizing how much of your life had just been a show.

A gust of wind flipped open a newspaper near his feet. The headline screamed: "ROCKSTAR LEGEND PAUL ROCKY DEAD AT 50, FANS MOURN GLOBAL LOSS."
He smiled bitterly, dead at fifty, he thought. The same age his father had been when he’d told Paul, “The stage will eat you alive if you don’t know when to step off.”

However, Paul had ignored him, and the stage had eaten well.

He thought about the night three months ago when he’d finally decided to disappear. No announcement. No farewell tour. Just him, a fake passport, and a glass of whisky in a motel room. The fake passport read “Michael Smith.” His lawyer handled the paperwork, the forensics guy, and the “body.” It was easier than he’d imagined. Fame made people believe anything they read as long as it was printed on the cover of a magazine. Just another reason why Paul hated the industry. It was all lies.

Now, the world was crying over ashes that weren’t even his. He crouched under the tree, picking on its dry wood, something to fidget with to relieve the anxiety. Watching his ex-wife, Clara, approach the casket. She placed a single white rose on top, trembling. Paul’s chest tightened. She had begged him, years ago, to take a break, reminding him of the person he used to be before the fame.

“Remember when you used to write songs just because you loved it?” she’d asked him once.

He had. And then he hadn’t.

Watching her now, grief written across her face, Paul knew what it cost to leave. But even that love. Pure, painful, and once his whole world, wasn’t enough to make him go back. The industry had already hollowed him out. Faking his death wasn’t an escape from Clara. It was an escape from himself. And that, he realized, was worth more than anything he’d ever lost.

He remembered the last time he felt human, and it wasn’t on stage, or during an encore, or under blinding lights. It was in a grocery store.

No security, no screaming fans. Just him, a basket, and the soft hum of fluorescent lights over a quiet aisle of produce. He’d picked up a loaf of bread and stared at it, marveling at how ordinary it felt to simply exist. No one whispered his name, no phones angled toward his face. He was no one here. Invisible, and it was beautiful.

That moment had stayed with him like a secret melody, one he couldn’t stop humming no matter how far he ran. That was what today was meant to be. His final chord, fading out softly, a song no one realized was ending.

The priest closed the book. The casket began to lower. The cameras zoomed in, the crowd leaned forward, and Paul, hidden beneath his hood, took one last look at the man they thought they were burying.

Then he turned and walked away.

He walked until the sound of the crowd faded, until the mud turned to pavement and the cemetery turned into a small roadside diner. Inside, it smelled of coffee and rain. A waitress in her thirties smiled at him, unaware of the ghost standing in front of her.

“What can I get you?” she asked.

He hesitated. The question felt heavier than it should. For the first time in decades, nobody cared what “Paul Rocky” wanted. “Michael Smith” could order anything.

“Just coffee,” he said finally, taking a seat by the window.

Outside, the rain eased him in a way. The clouds thinned, letting through a narrow blade of sunlight. Paul wrapped his hands around the warm mug and exhaled. He thought of his guitars, his awards, the screaming crowds, and it was all buried now under a fake tombstone.

For the first time in years, there was silence.

Efrain Gonzales is a digital creator from Huanuco, Peru. When he is not creating content or working on a project, he can be found going on a run, where he likes to brainstorm ideas for his next project. Follow him on his account on Instagram @chino.productionss