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Funeral Requiem for Mordecai

The Silence of the Morning After

The morning after the funeral didn’t come with a sunrise; it came with a grey, suffocating fog that clung to the trees like a damp shroud. For the first time in years, there was no alarm clock blaring in the small bedroom at the top of the stairs. There was no rhythmic snoring from the other side of the room, and there was no sense of urgency to beat Benson to the punch.

Rigby lay in his trampoline, staring at the ceiling. His eyes were crusty and swollen, the fur around his cheeks matted from hours of salt and grief. He looked over at Mordecai’s bed. It was made—neat, tucked in, and utterly empty. It looked like a museum exhibit, a frozen snapshot of a life that had simply stopped.

The silence was the worst part. The park was never silent. Even in the dead of night, there was usually the hum of the fridge, the distant rustle of the wind, or the muffled sound of Mordecai breathing. Now, the silence had a weight to it. It felt like it was pressing down on Rigby’s chest, making it hard to draw air.

He rolled out of his trampoline, his feet hitting the cold floorboards with a dull thud. He didn't wash his face. He didn't put on his usual bravado. He just shuffled out the door and down the hallway.

In the kitchen, the rest of the crew was already gathered. It was seven in the morning, the time they usually received their daily list of chores, but nobody was holding a clipboard. Benson sat at the head of the table, staring into a mug of black coffee that had long since gone cold. Skips was leaning against the counter, his eyes fixed on a knot in the wood of the floor. Muscle Man and High-Five Ghost were sitting in the corner, Muscle Man’s head buried in his hands.

Pops was the only one moving, feebly trying to butter a piece of toast that he clearly had no intention of eating. When Rigby entered, everyone looked up, but nobody spoke. The pity in their eyes made Rigby want to scream.

"Is there breakfast?" Rigby asked, his voice sounding thin and raspy.

"Pops made toast," Benson said quietly. His voice lacked its usual metallic edge. He sounded tired, like his very springs were winding down. "And there’s some juice in the fridge."

Rigby walked to the fridge, his hand trembling as he reached for the handle. He opened it and saw a half-finished carton of soda with Mordecai’s name scrawled on a piece of tape. He froze. He remembered Mordecai buying that three days before... before. He remembered Mordecai joking that if Rigby touched it, he’d have to do the hedge-trimming by himself for a week.

Rigby slammed the fridge shut without taking anything. "I’m not hungry."

"You gotta eat, little bro," Muscle Man said, his voice thick. "You haven't had anything since the wake."

"I said I'm not hungry, Muscle Man!" Rigby snapped, his grief flaring into a brief, hot spark of anger. He immediately regretted it when he saw Muscle Man flinch. The big man didn't fire back with a 'my mom' joke. He just nodded and looked away.

Skips finally spoke, his deep voice rumbling through the room. "Benson, what’s the plan for today?"

Benson looked at the empty seat next to Rigby. He looked at the chore list sitting on the counter, untouched. "I don't know, Skips. I think... I think we should just take the day. The park is closed to the public until tomorrow. We need to... we need to figure things out."

"We could go to the arcade," Pops suggested, though there was no joy in his tone. "Maybe a change of scenery would help our spirits?"

"I'm not going to the arcade," Rigby said, backing toward the door. "I'm going to go... do the hedges."

Benson stood up. "Rigby, you don't have to do that. Not today."

"I'm doing the hedges, Benson! That’s what we were supposed to do, right? That’s why you were yelling! So I'm gonna go do them!" Rigby turned and bolted out the back door before anyone could stop him.

He ran to the shed, fumbling with the lock until it clicked open. He grabbed the manual shears—the ones Mordecai always used because they were 'better for the environment' or some other junk he’d read online. Rigby dragged them across the grass toward the front of the house.

He started clipping. He didn't care about the lines. He didn't care about the height. He just hacked at the bushes, the metal blades clanging together with a harsh, discordant sound.

*Snip. Snip. Snip.*

"You're doing it wrong, dude."

Rigby stopped. He spun around, his heart leaping into his throat. "Mordecai?"

The lawn was empty. Only the fog swirled around the base of the oak trees. The voice had been so clear in his head, he could practically feel the sarcastic nudge in his ribs. But there was nobody there.

Rigby dropped the shears. They hit the dirt with a heavy thud. He sank to his knees, burying his face in his paws. "I can't do it," he sobbed. "I can't do any of it without you, man. It’s too quiet. It’s too big. Everything is just... wrong."

He stayed there for a long time, a small brown shape lost in the vast green of the park. Eventually, he felt a heavy, warm hand on his shoulder. He didn't need to look up to know it was Skips.

"It doesn't get easier," Skips said, sitting down on the grass beside him. "I've lived a long time, Rigby. I've seen a lot of people come and go. You don't ever really stop missing them."

"Then how do you do it?" Rigby asked, wiping his nose on his arm. "How do you just... keep walking around? How do you keep working? Every time I look at the cart, I see him in the driver's seat. Every time I see a glazed donut, I think about that time we tried to eat a dozen in five minutes. It’s everywhere, Skips. He’s everywhere, but he’s not *here*."

Skips looked out toward the horizon. "You carry them with you. At first, the weight is so heavy you think it’ll break your back. But after a while, you get stronger. You start to remember the good things without it hurting quite as much. You start to realize that he’s part of who you are now."

"I don't want to be stronger," Rigby whispered. "I just want my friend back."

"I know," Skips sighed. "I know."

They sat in silence for a while. It wasn't the cold, empty silence of the house; it was a shared silence, one that acknowledged the hole in the world.

Later that afternoon, a car pulled up the long gravel driveway. It was Margaret’s small red compact. She got out slowly, looking like she hadn't slept at all. She was carrying a cardboard box.

Rigby met her halfway. "Hey," he said awkwardly.

"Hey, Rigby," Margaret replied. Her eyes were still rimmed with red, but she gave him a small, sad smile. "I went through some of my stuff this morning. I found some things that... well, I thought you might want them. Or the park might want them."

She set the box down on the hood of the car. Inside were photos—dozens of them. There were pictures of the whole gang at the diner, pictures of Mordecai and Rigby acting like idiots at the beach, and a few candid shots of Mordecai sketching in his notebook when he thought nobody was looking.

Rigby picked up one photo. It was from the time they had tried to start a band. Mordecai was holding a guitar, looking incredibly serious, while Rigby was in the background wearing a cape and holding a pair of spoons.

"He looked so cool in this one," Rigby murmured.

"He was trying so hard to look cool," Margaret corrected softly, a small laugh escaping her throat. "He practiced that pose in the mirror for twenty minutes before we left the house."

Rigby felt a strange sensation in his chest. It was still heavy, still painful, but for a second, the air felt a little lighter. "He did? I didn't know that."

"Oh, yeah. He was a dork, Rigby. A big, blue, lovable dork."

They stood by the car, looking through the box, sharing stories that Mordecai would have probably been embarrassed to hear. CJ pulled up a few minutes later, bringing over a sweatshirt Mordecai had left at her place months ago. She joined them, and for a brief window of time, the grief wasn't a wall—it was a bridge.

As evening began to fall, the rest of the park staff wandered out onto the porch. Benson was carrying a tray of lemonade. He looked at the group gathered around Margaret’s car and hesitated before walking down the steps.

"Is... is everything okay?" Benson asked.

"Yeah, Benson," Rigby said, holding up the photo of the band. "We were just remembering stuff."

Benson looked at the photo. A genuine, if small, smile touched his lips. "I remember that day. You two were three hours late for work because you said you were 'finding your sound.' I was so close to firing you both."

"But you didn't," Rigby said.

"No," Benson admitted, looking around at his employees—his family. "I didn't."

He cleared his throat, his professional mask slipping back into place, though it was softer now. "Listen, I’ve been thinking. Tomorrow, we’re going to start a project. We’re going to build something. On the hill, near... near where we laid him. A bench. A nice one. Somewhere people can sit and look at the lake."

"I can help with the woodwork," Skips offered.

"I can do the heavy lifting, bro," Muscle Man added, stepping forward.

"And I shall provide the refreshments and moral support!" Pops chirped, clanging his hands together.

Rigby looked at the spot on the hill. The sun was dipping low, casting long, golden shadows across the grass. He thought about the bench. He thought about sitting there, maybe with a soda, and just watching the sunset. It wouldn't be the same. It would never be the same.

But as he looked at the people standing around him, he realized that while Mordecai was gone, the things he had built—the friendships, the chaos, the bond that held this ridiculous group of people together—were still very much alive.

"I want to help too," Rigby said firmly. "I want to carve the nameplate."

Benson nodded, placing a hand on Rigby’s shoulder. "That sounds like a plan, Rigby. A good plan."

That night, Rigby went back up to the room. He didn't avoid looking at the empty bed. He walked over to it and sat on the edge of the mattress. It smelled faintly of laundry detergent and whatever cheap cologne Mordecai used to wear when he was trying to impress Margaret.

Rigby reached into his pocket and pulled out the photo Margaret had given him. He tucked it into the corner of the mirror on Mordecai’s dresser.

"Goodnight, man," Rigby whispered into the darkness.

He didn't expect an answer. He didn't expect the ghost of his friend to appear and tell him everything was going to be 'Ooooooh!' again. But as he climbed back into his trampoline and closed his eyes, the silence didn't feel quite so heavy anymore. It felt like a rest.

The park would open tomorrow. The grass would need cutting, the trash would need emptying, and Benson would eventually find something to yell about. Life would go on, leaning heavily on the memories of the bird who had flown away too soon.

And as Rigby drifted off to sleep, he could almost hear the faint, ghostly sound of a synchronized "Yeah-yuh!" echoing in the rafters, a promise that even if things were regular now, they had once been something truly extraordinary.