A Rock Star Christmas Carol

Chapter 1: Ten Years Ago Past

Chapter 1 - Ten Years Ago

The England weather was ghastly. No more than usual for it being a rain-washed December afternoon, mind you, but one that brought a melancholy emotion to an already joyless occasion. The sky hung low over London like a shroud of gray cotton, heavy with unshed tears that mirrored the grief that should have been present in St Paul's Cathedral but wasn't. Rain lashed against the ancient stone walls in relentless sheets; each drop a tiny drumbeat playing a somber rhythm for the departed.

Syco Entertainment's founder Simon Cowell lay dead in a simple mahogany-shined casket at the head of St Paul's Cathedral—one of the largest churches in London, though today its vast emptiness made it feel more like a tomb than a house of worship. The cathedral, usually alive with the murmurs of tourists and the echo of choir practice, was unnervingly still. The silence of the dimly lit chapel was so profound that one could hear the downpour outside clicking against the roof and stained-glass windows, a natural percussion that underscored the artificial quiet within.

The air inside carried the scent of old stone, melting wax, and the faint metallic tang of funeral flowers arranged with clinical precision rather than genuine care. Light struggled through the rain-streaked windows, casting distorted colors across the stone floor—blues and reds and golds that seemed almost obscene in their beauty against the backdrop of death. Shadows stretched like grasping fingers from the vaulted ceilings, making the already cavernous space feel even more vast and empty.

Inside the Cathedral at the front by the coffin stood six souls, all with the same emotion one possibly could express at such a daunting time—or perhaps, six different variations of the same hollow numbness. The Bishop, the priest, Louis Tomlinson, Liam Payne, and two graveyard keepers that would ultimately transport the body to its final resting place outside in the courtyard. They stood like isolated islands in an ocean of empty pews, each lost in their own private thoughts while sharing this moment of profound solitude.

According to Simon's final arrangement in the letter of his last rights, he wanted to be buried in the wealthier section of Kensal Green in a mausoleum. Unfortunately for him, his wife had depleted his net worth with her own selfish desires and in turn the plot had been neglected to be paid. That left Tomlinson as the primary benefactor and he would be damned if he was paying £1,000,000 pounds for an extravagant funeral. Louis had made that decision with the cold precision of a businessman cutting costs, not as a grieving successor honoring a mentor.

So here they were: no music, no decorations and the cheapest coffin next to a pine box that could be purchased. The only thing Louis Tomlinson did for his successor was hold the funeral in the cathedral and that was only because he had enough respect to honor one of his final requests—which also happened to be the cheapest. The mahogany coffin, while handsome in its simplicity, seemed almost an insult in this grand setting—a modest boat in an ocean of stone and expectation.

He cleared his throat loudly, the sound echoing off the acoustics of the walls and vibrating back to the other five occupants like an accusation. The noise seemed to startle them all, including Louis himself, as if he'd forgotten they were there at all.

Liam, who was positioned at the foot of Simon's coffin, turned toward his friend with a frown, wondering why he would interrupt the proceedings of the priest, but then again—no one had been saying anything to begin with as they were the only ones to show up for final respects. The silence had stretched so long that Liam had found himself counting the water drops running down the stained-glass windows, each one a tiny tragedy hitting the stone floor below.

The priest, who had finished the final eulogy a few moments prior, stood awkwardly at the front and overlooked the endless rows of unoccupied seats. His hands were clasped tightly in front of his simple black robes, fingers white with pressure as if he were trying to hold back words that might never come. His eyes kept darting toward the main doors, as if expecting more mourners to arrive even now, late but present. But the doors remained closed, and the rows stayed empty.