The Accidental Mourner: Elon Musk’s Life-Changing Funeral Encounter
Elon Musk never imagined that seeking refuge from the rain would change his life forever. Chicago was a nightmare that night—sidewalks flooded, lightning splitting the sky, wind howling through the city’s steel and glass. Elon, in town for a tech conference, found himself sprinting down the drenched streets, searching for shelter. The first door he found belonged to a church.
He pushed it open, shaking water from his hair, and froze. Dozens of people clad in black, a coffin surrounded by white lilies, the heavy scent of sorrow filling the air—a funeral was underway. Elon recoiled, but it was too late. Heads turned. In the open casket, he saw the face of a young Black woman—beautiful, utterly unknown to him. He breathed a sigh of relief: at least it wasn’t anyone he knew. He’d wait for the rain to subside, then slip away.
That’s when a small hand touched his. A boy, no older than seven, looked up at him, red-rimmed eyes brimming with tears. The boy’s suit hung loosely on his slender frame. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Musk,” he whispered.
The world seemed to halt. The boy knew him. He had been expecting him.
“My mom always spoke of you,” the boy continued, clutching Elon’s hand tightly. “She said you were a hero.”
Elon felt his blood run cold. “What was your mother’s name?”
“Elellanar Brooks. She was a teacher.”
Elon had never heard the name in his life. Yet this deceased woman spoke of him, called him a hero, and now her orphaned son stood before him, expecting him to do something. Elon gazed at the coffin, at the boy, at the mourners surrounding them. The rain lashed against the windows, but he no longer thought of leaving. Something was terribly wrong with this funeral, and he was on the verge of uncovering a truth no one wanted brought to light.
“Noah,” Elon said softly, “how did your mother know me?”
Before the boy could answer, a Black woman in her early thirties approached, her eyes swollen from weeping. “You must be Elon Musk. I’m Tasha Green, Elellanar’s best friend.”
Elon shook her hand, bewildered. “Tasha, I must be honest—I’ve never met Elellanar. I only came in here to escape the rain.”
Tasha’s eyes widened. “Impossible. Elellanar spoke of you incessantly. She claimed you were the only one who could help her if something happened.”
“Help how?”
Tasha checked to see if anyone was listening, then whispered, “Elellanar was terrified. She said someone was after her, that they’d silence her permanently.”
A chilling realization ran down Elon’s spine. “Silence her for what?”
“She uncovered secrets—things certain people would kill to keep hidden.”
Noah tugged on Elon’s sleeve and pulled a folded paper from his pocket—a crayon drawing. “Mommy asked me to give this to you if she… if she didn’t come back.”
Elon unfolded the paper. His blood ran cold. The drawing depicted a Black woman being pursued by a menacing shadow, tears streaming down her face. Below, in childish handwriting: He said no one would believe.
Elon stared at Noah. “Who said that?”
“The man who visited Mommy at school,” Noah sobbed. “He always spoke quietly with her, and she’d be very sad afterward.”
Tasha gasped, covering her mouth. “My God, Elellanar… what secret did you uncover?”
Elon tucked the drawing into his jacket, his mind racing. Elellanar hadn’t died by chance. Someone had been threatening her, and she believed Elon Musk would see justice done. But who was the man in the shadows? What revelation had cost Elellanar her life?
The answer was poised to emerge in a devastating manner.
.
.
.
As the organ music reverberated through the church, Elon scanned each face, searching for clues. That’s when he saw something impossible in the casket: an antique Bible lay half-open, a white envelope jutting out between the pages. “Tasha,” Elon whispered, “do you see that envelope?”
Tasha followed his gaze and gasped. “That wasn’t there yesterday when we prepared the body.”
Elon’s heart pounded. Someone had placed that envelope there after the casket arrived. But who—and why?
He needed to retrieve that letter.
“Noah said she wanted my help. Perhaps this letter explains everything.”
People were distracted. Elon rose and walked to the casket, feigning prayer. With swift movements, he snatched the envelope from the Bible and concealed it in his jacket. When he returned, his hands were trembling.
“Did you get it?” Tasha asked.
Elon nodded. At that moment, the church lights dimmed. A tall, white man in his sixties ascended the pulpit—elegant suit, perfectly coiffed gray hair, eyes like ice. “Brothers and sisters,” he intoned, “I am Pastor Wittmann. I am here to honor our beloved Elellanar Brooks.”
Noah clutched Elon’s hand as if terrified. Seizing the moment, Elon opened the envelope. The letter inside was hurried, nervous, as if written by someone racing against death.
If you are reading this, something has happened to me. I knew this day would come. For weeks I tried to find courage to expose what I uncovered, but now it might be too late. If I disappear, it was no accident.
Find Pastor Wittmann. He knows the truth about me. Trust Tasha. She has the proof. And please take care of my Noah—he is all I have in this world.
—Elellanar Brooks
Elon read it twice, needing a moment to regain his breath. Elellanar knew she was going to die, and she left clues. The name in the letter was the man at the pulpit—Pastor Wittmann.
Wittmann spoke of Elellanar, every word a well-rehearsed lie. The murderer stood right there, feigning grief, and Elon was the only person in the church who knew the devastating truth.
Unable to hold his tongue, Elon stood. “Pastor, could you elaborate on these torments Elellanar reportedly endured?”
A tension descended upon the church.
“My apologies, Mr. Musk,” Wittmann said, a strange smile on his lips. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
“Elon Musk,” Elon replied. “And I am not your brother.”
A ripple of murmurs spread through the congregation.
“Ah, the renowned Elon Musk,” Wittmann uttered, his tone subtly condescending. “It is an honor to have you present. As I was saying, Elellanar contended with personal adversities—”
“What sort of adversities?” Elon pressed. “Financial? Health? Or perhaps issues stemming from those meant to safeguard her?”
Wittmann’s smile faltered, then returned. “Mr. Musk, it is not incumbent upon everyone to be privy to the most intimate details of Elellanar’s life—especially when those moments implicate individuals presumed trustworthy.”
Wittmann descended from the pulpit, approaching Elon. His smile vanished. “Perhaps it would be more appropriate to discuss this after the service,” he murmured, voice low and menacing.
At that moment, Wittmann’s gaze drifted toward Noah, who clutched the drawing. With a swift motion, Wittmann snatched the drawing and shredded it, all while maintaining a placid smile. “Children fabricate fantasies to cope with grief,” he said to the congregation.
Noah began to weep, not out of sorrow for his mother, but from primal terror. Elon felt rage ignite within him. Wittmann had perpetrated a heinous act against Elellanar Brooks and had just threatened a seven-year-old child in plain sight.
The war had begun.
After the service, Elon, Tasha, and Noah left quickly. At Tasha’s home, she locked the door and drew the curtains. “Three months ago, Elellanar started acting paranoid. She claimed someone was following her—Pastor Wittmann. He’d show up at her school, at her home, always with some pretext. He made improper overtures, offered money, gifts, a better job—all in exchange for favors. When she refused, he escalated.”
Tasha handed Elon a box. Inside were photos of Elellanar—distressed, bruised, tears in her eyes, a pale male hand on her shoulder.
“Why didn’t she report him?”
“Who would believe her? Wittmann has ties to politicians, law enforcement, judges. Elellanar was just a teacher, a single parent.”
“How did she die?”
“Cardiac arrest, they said. But she was healthy.”
Elon’s mind raced. “We need proof. And Noah can’t be left alone.”
“He’ll stay with me,” Tasha said, “but be careful. Wittmann will do anything to protect himself.”
Elon left, his resolve hardening. He hired a private investigator, James Riley, who quickly uncovered a pattern: Wittmann had pastored in three cities, always leaving after a young Black woman—a teacher, a single mother—died suddenly of “heart attacks.” In each case, the death certificate was signed by a friend from the same theological university.
Elon and Riley found that Elellanar had filed a harassment complaint with the Department of Education, only for it to be dismissed in a week by another of Wittmann’s old friends. The network of complicity was vast.
With Tasha’s help, Elon found Elellanar’s hidden files: a USB drive, a notebook, audio recordings. Among them, a recording of Wittmann threatening Elellanar, and a video confession: “Women like her need to learn to stay quiet. Just like Denise in Cleveland. Just like Patricia in Detroit.”
The next Sunday, Elon and Tasha attended Wittmann’s service. Mid-sermon, Elon strode down the aisle, laptop in hand. “I am here because someone must bring the truth to light,” he declared. Tasha projected the video onto the church’s screen. Wittmann’s voice filled the sanctuary, damning himself with his own words.
Gasps, then outrage. Police entered, arresting Wittmann for coercion, harassment, obstruction of justice, and suspected murder. The congregation was left in shock, some weeping, others praying.
Outside, Noah hugged Elon. “Thank you,” he whispered.
Elon smiled. “Let’s give a voice to those no one else listens to.”
Days later, Elon, Noah, and Tasha launched a foundation—Silenced Voices—to investigate and share stories like Elellanar’s. Elon knew he’d walked into a funeral by mistake, but what he’d found was a new purpose: justice, and the power to help those who had none.
