Held her Close

Evelyn was gone.

Cassandra sat beside her grandmother's bed, still holding her hand. The room was silent—no beeping machines, no ragged breathing, no whispered prayers. Just silence. The kind of silence that filled every corner, every crevice, every empty space in her chest.

She didn't cry. She didn't speak. She just sat there, staring at the woman who had raised her. The woman who had lied to her. The woman who had loved her.

Dante stood behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders. He didn't speak either. He just stayed.

---

The funeral was small.

Just Cassandra, Dante, Samantha, and a few of Evelyn's old friends—women Cassandra had never met, who spoke in hushed voices about what a good person Evelyn had been. Cassandra listened, but the words didn't register. They felt distant, like they were talking about someone else.

She stood at the graveside, a single white rose in her hand. The sky was gray, the air cold. She stared at the casket as it was lowered into the ground.

She didn't cry.

She dropped the rose into the grave and walked away.

---

Dante handled everything.

The funeral arrangements. The burial. The paperwork. He didn't ask Cassandra what she wanted—he just did what needed to be done. He hired a new maid—a quiet, efficient woman named Clara—who helped Cassandra bathe, dress, eat. He made sure the house was warm. He made sure the lights were on. He made sure Cassandra was never alone.

But he didn't push. He didn't rush. He just waited.

---

That night, Cassandra finally broke.

She was in the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing. The tears came slowly at first—silent, slipping down her cheeks like raindrops on glass. Then the sobs. Great, heaving sobs that tore through her body like a storm.

She doubled over, her arms wrapped around her stomach. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't feel anything but the overwhelming weight of grief.

Dante was there in an instant.

He pulled her into his arms. He held her. He didn't speak. He didn't try to fix it. He just held her, his arms wrapped around her, his lips pressed to her hair.

She cried. For her grandmother. For her mother. For herself. For all the years she'd lost and all the years she'd never have.

He held her through all of it.

---

Days passed.

Cassandra started to eat again. She started to sleep again. She started to talk again. She started to live again.

Dante stayed by her side through all of it. He didn't push. He didn't rush. He just waited.

One night, they were sitting on the porch, watching the stars. Cassandra was wrapped in a blanket, her head resting on Dante's shoulder.

"I want to live," she said quietly.

He looked at her.

"For her. For my mother. For me." She met his eyes. "I've been surviving for so long. I want to live."

He took her hand. "Then we'll live. Together."

---

That night, Cassandra received a letter.

No return address. No name. Just a plain white envelope with her name written in elegant, looping script.

She opened it slowly.

Inside was a single photograph. A picture of Grace Hayes, young and smiling. She was holding a baby—Cassandra. Her eyes were bright with love.

On the back, a note in handwriting Cassandra didn't recognize.

She would be proud of you.