Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Elena’s funeral stretches on, agonizingly slow, every moment another jagged scrape against my heart. My mother crumbles under the weight of her grief, and I can do nothing but watch, hold her up, absorb the grief that threatens to consume her.

 Since I stepped through that door, I haven’t been able to shed a single tear. Her sorrow eclipses mine, swallowing any space I might have had to mourn my sister. My mother needs me more than I need my own grief.

The service feels endless. The townspeople filter through, each one with something beautiful to say about Elena—her charity work, her quiet courage, the friendships she built in places I never thought to look. The mechanic at the end of town speaks of her like a saint, voice thick with emotion, and I hear the phrase “taken too soon” so many times it begins to lose meaning, turns into something sharp and bitter in my throat. 

I excuse myself, slipping into the bathroom, gagging over the toilet, but there’s nothing to bring up. I haven’t eaten in days. I can’t remember the last time I sat down and put a real meal into my body.

My eyes sting, hot and swollen, as I lean against the stall door, breathing through the nausea. All these stories, all these pieces of Elena’s life—I wasn’t part of any of them.

“Come home already,” she used to say every time we spoke. “You’re missing out on my life, and I’m missing out on yours. Come home, Ray.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. My breath stutters as tears slip down my face, unchecked, endless. I yank a handkerchief from my pocket, but it’s useless. The grief is a flood, and I don’t think it’ll ever stop. I stayed away when I could’ve come home, buried myself in my own selfishness, avoided my sister because I didn’t want to witness her happiness with Noah, with Mom and Dad. I was jealous, so stupidly jealous. And now, I don’t have to be—because she’s gone.

But Elena was never the source of my insecurities. She was the only one who truly saw me, despite everything I told myself. And I was foolish, so utterly foolish, because now I’ll never get to see her in real time, never get to share a space, to hug her, to make up for lost moments. No matter how much I wish I could.

A knock echoes through the bathroom. I force myself up, swallowing down the grief clawing at my chest. I need to face this day, push through it, pray it ends quickly. 

I pull the door open and freeze. Noah stands before me, and my heart jerks painfully at the sight of him. He looks hollowed out, thinner, the usual bronze of his skin dulled to something pale and washed out. He hasn’t been eating either.

“Are you alright?” His voice is quiet, his gaze sweeping over me, truly seeing me for the first time since I arrived.

“I’m fine.” I straighten my black dress, clear my throat, force myself to sound composed.

“They’re heading to the cemetery now,” he says, voice stripped of everything that once made it his—no warmth, no inflection, just something flat and drained. Another ache blooms in my chest.

I hesitate, watching him turn away, then ask, “Are you alright?” 

He stops, shifts slightly, and then, with something that barely resembles a smile, says, “I am… coping…” There’s more behind his words, something heavier, unsaid. But all he settles for is, “It’s good to have you back, Ray.”

I nod, speechless, the weight of his grief pressing against mine. I haven’t seen Noah cry since I came home yesterday. He’s been a pillar for my mother, steady in a way I can’t quite comprehend. He stayed at our house last night, checking on Mom each time her restless sleep shattered into choked sobs. 

Noah carries all of it—his own loss, ours—and somehow, he doesn’t break.

The lowering of the coffin happens too quickly. One moment, Elena’s resting above ground—the next, she’s being swallowed by it. My chest tightens, breath hitching, and panic claws at the edges of my vision. 

This is real. Final. 

My sister is about to be covered in earth, to disappear beneath it forever. 

The thought is suffocating, a crushing weight on my ribs. For a split second, I worry I’ll collapse, tumble forward, try to stop them from burying her.

Then, warmth. Fingers curl around mine, grounding me. I jolt at the suddenness, look up, and meet Noah’s steady gaze. He mouths, Breathe. Slowly.

I force the air in, then out. My throat burns, tears spill free, and before I know it, I’m reaching for him. Noah doesn’t hesitate. He pulls me in, letting me crumble against him. 

“Elena is gone,” I whisper, the words jagged.

He doesn’t respond. Just holds me, lets me sob against his suit, lets me grieve without restraint.

By evening, the house is quiet. The guests have trickled away, leaving behind the heavy silence of loss. Only Noah remains with my parents, his own mother and father lingering in the dimly lit living room. 

Gilbert and Janet Sparks are older than I remember—gray streaks more prominent, shoulders slumped with the weight of the years. They had Noah late, and now, at thirty, he’s watching them age more quickly than he expected.

“Where’s William?” I ask, breaking the silence.

Janet offers a soft smile. “He’s upstairs, asleep in Elena’s bed.” 

I nod, swallowing thickly. I haven’t seen him since I arrived. His grandparents have kept him close, shielding him. 

I climb the stairs and pause at the door to Elena’s room, inhaling deeply, steadying myself. Then, I push it open.

William isn’t asleep like they said. His small frame is hunched over something, golden curls falling forward, shielding his face. 

“Hey,” I murmur, keeping my voice soft, gentle. “What have you got there?” 

He lifts his head, and I falter, caught off guard. His eyes—so vividly green—lock onto mine. I hadn’t realized they were  this  green. A startling brightness, full of innocence. As I stare at his heart-shaped face, I see Elena, traces of her etched into his features. A wave of warmth spreads through me, an overwhelming, sudden tether to this little boy I’m only just meeting. 

I settle onto the floor beside him, folding my legs beneath me. “Hi,” I say, tentative. “Do you know who I am?” 

A ridiculous question, really. I look exactly like his mother, and he’s too young—barely three—to grasp what loss truly means.

William studies me for a beat before saying, matter-of-factly, “You are not Mummy.”

The words hit harder than expected, leaving me stiff, momentarily speechless.

I swallow. “How do you know?” The question is heavier than I intend.

He tilts his head, frowning slightly. “You look funny.” 

I sigh, exhaling a quiet chuckle. “You’re right, Will. I’m not your mummy—I’m her sister, Esmeray.”

He tilts his head, lips pressing together as he tries to say my name. It comes out slightly off, the syllables tangled in his tiny voice.

“Or you can call me Ray,” I offer. “Everyone does.”

William doesn’t respond, just shifts his focus back to the music box in his hands. Barbie and Ken stand frozen atop it, the familiar figures instantly recognizable. Elena adored them when she was young. 

“Do you want to play with that?” I ask.

“It stopped playing,” he says, eyes locked onto it, fingers gripping the edges.

“Oh?” I reach out gently. “Can I see? Maybe I can fix it.”

Without hesitation, he hands it over, sniffing loudly as he does. I catch the congestion in his little nose, the way he breathes through his mouth to compensate.

“Hey,” I say, rising to my feet, deliberately not letting my gaze linger on the wall of photos staring back at me. I grab a tissue from a nearby box. “Let’s blow your nose, okay?”

I kneel, helping him, wiping his face clean. He lets me, trusting, his small hands gripping his knees as I work.

Then, just as I’m tossing the tissue into the trash, he asks, “Why is everyone crying?”

My fingers still over the wastebasket. The question is simple, innocent. But it feels heavier than anything I’ve carried today. I blink, steadying myself before turning back to him. 

“Hm.”

I stall, heart thudding. My mind blanks out, spiraling in quiet panic. I glance behind me, almost hoping someone else might appear, someone older or wiser—someone who knows how to answer questions like this. But it’s just me and him.

I kneel in front of William, searching his small face for something. He’s too young for this. Too young to carry this kind of loss. But he deserves the truth, or some version of it.

“Well,” I start softly, “something sad happened.”

He tilts his head. “Something sad? Like how I haven’t seen Mummy for days?”

That hits harder than I expect. I nod slowly. “Yeah, Will. Like that.”

He watches me carefully, not fidgeting like most kids his age. “Mummy left?”

“She did,” I whisper, then add, “She can’t come back now. And that makes everyone really sad.”

His eyebrows pull together. “Can’t come back?”

I nod again, forcing the ache in my throat down. “She’s gone somewhere, but… it’s not far. She’s actually still close. We just can’t see her.”

He frowns. “Why?”

I exhale. “Because… she’s in a place people can’t see.”

He thinks about that. “Why did she go to a place like that?”

My mouth goes dry. I swallow, willing my voice to stay steady. “Because God called her.”

He blinks. “Why?”

I rest a hand gently on his knee. “Because Mummy was very kind, and good, and God loves people like that. So… He called her home.”

William stares at the music box again, his lashes brushing the curve of his cheeks.

“But one day,” I add, “one day He’ll call us too. And we’ll get to see her again.”

He tilts his head, and I brace myself for another question. Is he going to ask where God is? How to find Him? What if he asks how to get there too?

I don’t have answers. Just this fragile explanation I’m barely holding together.

I twist the music box in my hand without realizing, and when it suddenly begins to sing, it startles me so badly I nearly scream.

“Hey, you fixed it!” he says, beaming at me with a grin full of missing teeth.

I let out a laugh—part relief, part surprise. I hadn’t even realized I was holding my breath.

He’s adorable. Absolutely adorable. I can’t believe I missed this. I missed his birth, his first words, his everything. Grief tightens in my chest again, but this time it’s wrapped in something softer. Regret.

He reaches for the music box and I let him have it, but before he can scoot away, I pull him into a hug. He doesn’t resist. I rub his back gently and whisper,

“You’re a good boy, Will.”

He doesn’t pull away. Just lets me hold him.

And somehow, as I wrap my arms around his little frame, something in me loosens. The grip on my heart, the tight coil of sadness I’ve been carrying, starts to give. Just a little.

He smells like baby lotion and sleep, and in his warmth, I feel something I haven’t felt since I came back.

A thread of peace. A piece of Elena. A reason to keep breathing.