Lahat ng Kabanata ng RECKLESS DESIRES: THE ODEN LEGACY : Kabanata 71 - Kabanata 80

"I didn't even bring flowers," Amiriam growled, kneeling at the headstone as the late sun sliced through the trees in the cemetery. Wind danced among strands of her hair and sent the scent of grass and dirt and something with a metallic taste on the breeze."Didn't think I'd be here again at all," she continued, her voice stronger than she was. "But here I am. Again."The grave was simple, unpretentious. The stone read:Evelyn Solomon. 1969–2020.She did what she could.Amiriam let out a sigh close to laughter. "You always hated sentiment. Even in death, you were honest."She sat down, the ground a bit moist under her jeans, and pulled out her journal from her backpack. Worn, leather-bound. The pages smelled of ink and lost sleep.She opened to a blank page and began to write.April 3rd.I always survived. Even when no one came back for me. Even when I screamed and no one ever glanced around. Even when I sat on the side of my bed, twelve years old, listening to your silence behind the

"There's a 'No Cell Phones' sign in the front, right?" Amiriam questioned, her voice drifting over the high shelves of the downtown library. Her voice was gentle, nearly playful—but her gaze never moved from the cart of returned books she was shelving.Luke glanced up from where he was standing, holding his buzzing phone uncomfortably, the screen still glowing with a message from Richard."Corry, red-handed," he said, silencing it and stuffing it in his jacket. "Didn't think I'd see you here."Amiriam pushed the cart in front of her. "And yet here you are again—showing up uninvited in spaces I come to find refuge in."He smiled sheepishly. "I didn't come by to impose. I came to ask something."She stopped and arched her brow. "You're asking now?"His expression turned serious. "I'm trying."Amiriam inclined her head and stepped along the row. Luke followed her at a deferential distance, his gaze wandering over the books coated in dust. The library smelled of old paper, oiled wood, and

"But what do you mean someone donated fifty thousand dollars anonymously?" Amiriam asked, setting her mug of tea down with a soft thud against the edge of the front desk.Her assistant, Leah, blinked behind her glasses, the check trembling in her hand. "It arrived this morning. No signature. No return address. Just. that."She gave Amiriam the crumpled note. Pale cream paper, costly. The writing was neat, clean, and intimate in a way that constricted her chest.The note read:Because you kept showing up, even when nobody showed up for you.Just one sentence. No signature. No flourish. Nothing else.Amiriam stared at it.Rita entered from the break room, a granola bar clutched in her hand. "What's up?"Amiriam gave her the note.Rita read it, arched an eyebrow. "Anonymous donor with poetic inclinations? Must be a man with money and a guilty conscience.""I was thinking the same," Amiriam grumbled."You were thinking Luke."Amiriam didn't answer immediately. Rather, she turned the note

"You know he still asks about you, right?"Luke's voice broke the silence, borne on the cool evening air as he walked amicably alongside Amiriam along the winding path that bordered the city's botanical garden. Above them, the sky was striped with gold and rose colors, the residual edges of sunlight stretching out long shadows on the pavement.Amiriam didn't respond immediately. Her hands were plunged deep into the pockets of her coat, her gaze straight ahead, where a fleet of ducks drifted lazily across the pond. The gentle creak of the trees surrounded them, and the world seemed unnaturally quiet—like it was hanging back to observe what would transpire next.Luke glanced at her. "He asks after you almost every night."She took slow breaths, her breath foggy in the cold air. "I guessed. Rita told me something once. Said he's been having trouble sleeping lately."Luke nodded. "He keeps this little paper star under his pillow—the one you made with him at the clinic. Says it gives him n

"Today is an open circle. If you're comfortable, you may share." Dr. Reiner's words drifted gently across the room, a gentle wave soothing the stormy seas of emotion that too often churned and ebbed in the therapy room. The chairs were arranged in a circle, as usual—simple, bare, and somehow consecrated in their silent concord. Amiriam sat at the window, the light casting soft shadows on her face. Before her, a leather-bound volume worn from years of unconscious handling quivered in her hands, edges torn, pages yellow with years of silent suffering and stifled healing. Dr. Reiner nodded. "Amiriam?" She breathed slowly. "This one was September 2020," she said, opening the book. "The week following. all of it." Beyond the door ajar in the back of the room, a figure waited—invisible, unheard, pounding heart. Luke Oden shouldn't have been there. He wasn't asked. But Richard had mentioned casually that the clinic hosted the occasional open circles. And when he'd seen the illegibly s