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It was Scott's favorite movie, and that Saturday all his friends and family came over to watch it with him. It was an obscure, rather bizarre movie, and ordinarily some people, perhaps most of them, would have begged off the occasion to do something more enjoyable. Not this time, though.
This time, they all watched the movie with something like interest. Many of them watched the actors' faces and situations for some kind of hidden meaning, some kind of reason. They didn't find any. It had a beginning, a middle, and an end, like most movies, and it was rather strange in places. That was all.
Nobody laughed at any of the jokes, not even the good ones. Not even Scott.
Some of them didn't really pay attention, but some of watched it carefully. It didn't matter. In the end, none of them saw.
As the final credits rolled, the guests began to file out, leaving Scott alone. Scott's mother stood at the door and bade them farewell. "Thanks for coming," she said to each of them. Her eyes were soggy, stuck on the shiny ends of pale tear tracks up her cheeks.
A man in a dark suit with a yellow chrysanthemum came up to Scott's mother. "That was never one of my favorite movies," he said. His eyes connected with Scott's mother's. "I'll never be able to watch it again."
"I know," Scott's mother said, tears flowing anew. "I'll never watch it again either." Her eyes turned to the casket. "I couldn't bring myself to ever buy a copy, and Scott wanted to be buried with this one."
"Do you know why? Why this one?"
Scott's mother shook her head.
The man in the dark suit with the yellow chrysanthemum smiled grimly, patted Scott's mother on the shoulder.
And just like that, it was over. Everyone went away.
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