Holding to a pair of cold stiff hands, I knew it would be the last time I would ever touch it; the hands without warmth. Even though I was young, I understood. I clung onto the long wood box that my father was laying in with my entire strength as people put the cover over it.

"No, don't cover it! If you do, he won't be able to get up!" I screamed, holding to it as if my life were depended on it. I was terrified at the thought of him being put into such a deep dark hole. "Wake up dad! Wake up and tell them to stop," I wailed as strong hands tore me apart from him. The wood box was slowly lower into the scary hole. "No, please no." I hit, kicked and scratched with every ounce of energy I had to make way to the big hole in hope to stop them, ignored my surroundings, ignored my little brother who, too, cried loudly.

I was only eight and did not clearly understand what death was, but I knew one thing that you would never see the person again. I had learned that from some of my friends who had lost their parents. I never thought I would become one of them so soon. I did not want to accept the fact that never again would I see my father. That was why I screamed and clung onto him in such manner.

If I called him loud enough he surely would open his eyes. He never could ignore me for long when I threw a tantrum and would always come to scorn and then sooth me. This time, too, I would wake him up. I won't let them buried him under the ground. I screamed until my throat felt sore, my voice became husky, but he remained still. The people gave me pity looks as they watched me in silence.

The moment they covered my father's box with dirt, I cried louder than ever. My voice was echoing inside my head, I felt like my throat would tear apart, but I didn't care. I did not want it to be the last time.

They are burying him!

Even if he did not wake up, I wanted to be able to see him and touched his cold hands whenever I wanted to. But my instinct was right, that was the last time I touched that pair of hands.

Too soon, I had to experience such painful feeling again and again. When I looked into the wrinkling hands, this time, I sobbed in silence. I knew no matter what I did or how hard I cried, grandfather, same as my father and mother, would not come back.

They couldn't come back!

In my right hand was a small warm hand that gripped tightly into mine, the hand that I had to protect. In Ho, my only bother. No matter what happened we were all we had.

Author's note: I have always find In Ha's character a challenge to write, but was never able to start it. I don't know much details about her past such as when she lost her parents or if she lost one or both at a time. This is the beginning of my fanfiction and hope to make her stay in her character as much as possible. Please let me know what you think about it and if I her stray out of her character. I will try to finish it as soon as I can because if I don't then I might lose interest and never finish it. Forgive my bad grammars. Thanks for the read.