Chapter 18: Ashes and Truths
The morning was colorless — the rain fell so softly you could hardly hear it, like the world itself was careful not to wake a fragile soul. Gray clouds rolled low, and each breath I took felt damp, my hands stuffed deep into my pockets as I stood at the edge of the cemetery.
Her funeral was small. Too small for someone who had filled every empty corner of my life with light. The priest spoke in gentle tones that melted into the rain, and my gaze never left the casket — smooth, plain wood disappearing slowly into a dark hollow.
I held my umbrella up, but my sleeves were soaked. My shoes were muddy. None of it mattered.
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Every face blurred together around me — her aunt crying into a tissue, her childhood friends leaning into one another. Even the priest, even my parents who had come along because they felt my pain was their pain too — they were all background to the sharp, aching absence right in front of me.
When someone placed a single white lily on the coffin, my fists tightened in my pockets. That was it — a fragile flower, and the ground swallowed everything else.
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When it was over, I didn't move.
I listened to the rain.
Listened to my breath.
Listened to the hollow sound of my heart beating in a world that had moved on too quickly.
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Eventually, my parents touched my shoulder, guiding me gently toward the car. The silence was careful as we drove home, rain streaking across the windshield like tear tracks. The house smelled exactly as I'd left it — warm tea, laundry soap, my mother's cooking — yet tonight it felt like someone had stripped the walls of every sound.
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That evening, we sat around the small wooden dining table, my parents exchanging glances they thought I wouldn't notice.
"You haven't been sleeping," my mother finally said, her voice careful.
I looked up and felt the sting of my own exhaustion.
How long had I been up every night, hoping the morning wouldn't come?
How long had my hands felt cold because they weren't holding hers?
I swallowed, my throat dry.
"I can't sleep," I whispered.
And the words broke whatever was left inside me.
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My father reached across the table, his palm rough and warm as it covered my trembling hands. "You can talk to us," he said gently. "We're here. Every part of this pain… we'll carry with you."
And so I did.
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I told them about the hospital nights when I would listen to the sound of her breathing and feel my soul tearing slowly in two.
About the mornings when she forgot me — and I had to become someone new just to hold her attention long enough for her to smile.
About the nights I stayed up wondering if I was losing her or losing myself.
And about that final day, when I left the hospital thinking there would be one more sunrise together, only to come back too late.
My voice broke so many times I could hardly speak.
And they never hurried me.
Never looked away.
They just stayed — present, like I wished I could have been.
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When my father finally spoke again, his voice was quiet:
"Grief changes people," he said. "But so can love. Even if she's gone, what she left in you doesn't have to disappear too."
And my mother, eyes glistening with her own held-back tears, nodded.
"You don't have to do this alone," she whispered.
And in that moment, I felt like the house — these walls that had kept me upright — might hold me a little longer.
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That night, I lay in my childhood bed and stared up at the ceiling.
The rain was still going.
And I thought about all the versions of me that had disappeared with her — the one who kissed her in the hospital bed, the one who held her hands like they were made of glass.
And I thought about the version of me left behind.
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Maybe, I thought as my eyes finally closed,
he could survive.
Maybe even if I never slept the same again,
even if my hands never felt as warm as hers —
maybe I could remember her enough for the both of us.
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Quote from the Protagonist (Chapter 18):
"Some losses don't just hollow you out — they leave a small light in the empty space, so you never forget who you became because of them."