The morning was wrapped in fog, as if the city itself mourned. At the crest of the winding path through Highgate Cemetery, a hush fell over the crowd. They had gathered for one final farewell to Ozzy Osbourne — the Prince of Darkness, the rebel who had once defied death itself with a snarl and a grin.
Then, without a word, Brian May appeared.
He stepped through the mist like a ghost from rock and roll’s golden age — tall, solemn, draped in a long black coat. His silver curls flowed past his shoulders, untamed by time. In his hands, he carried a battered wooden guitar, the same one that had sung to millions across decades.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
As the pallbearers lifted Ozzy’s coffin, May began to play. The first haunting notes of *“Mama, I’m Coming Home”* whispered into the heavy air. It was tender, stripped down — almost fragile. The song, once a farewell to the road, now became a farewell to the man himself.
On both sides of the path, mourners stood in silence. Dressed in black, each held a branch of white flowers. Some wept quietly. Others knelt, pressing hands to hearts as the coffin passed. A few reached out, fingertips brushing air, as if they could grasp the fading essence of a legend.
Walking beside the casket was Ozzy’s daughter — a young girl with cropped purple hair that radiated defiance and sorrow in equal measure. Her face was pale, hollowed by grief. She said nothing. Her hand rested gently on the lid of the coffin, unmoving, steady — as if anchoring herself to what little remained.
Tears rolled silently down her cheeks. They needed no words.
Around her, eyes turned red. Grown men bowed their heads. Strangers embraced. A generation that had once screamed his name now whispered it through trembling lips.
And in that misty, frozen moment, as Brian May’s chords faded into silence, the world let go of Ozzy — not with noise, but with reverence.
