Let This Grieving Soul Retire Novel Novels & Stories

CHAPTER 5 — The Day the World Stood Still Liana POV If grief had a sound, it would be the soft thud of soil hitting a coffin. That was the thought that stayed in my head as Elise’s casket was slowly lowered into the ground. A sound so small, delicate even—but heavy enough to break a thousand pieces inside me every time it echoed.

Deep into the woods stayed a small village. Almost known to be nameless if not for the oldies that told of the name it used to be called. The truth is indeed that this place used to be a cheerful and happy one. At least not until he was born. A demon coming into the world in the form of man. But I dare not reveal too much at the first chapter because it might leave you with nothing but nightmares. I'll go slow and you know what your part is in this book? Try not to chicken out and read till the end.

* I close the journal. I drink my coffee. I look at the city through Groundwork's window — the cobblestones and the wet amber and the river at the end of the street doing its patient work — and I think about the woman who arrived here. The one with the suitcase and the grief. The one who stood at the altar in a plum dress and held herself together by sheer Gamma-class reflex while her life dissolved in front of three hundred witnesses and one very startled officiant. The one who drove away in a car with Ozzie and cried the ugly kind for twenty minutes and then said: faster.

“The story’s over. It’s time to let the echo fade.” The words should hurt. They don’t. They just… settle. A final, quiet truth. The ghost of my first love is retiring. There’s no anger left. It was burned away by years of shared patrols, of stilted dinners, of watching him protect the life I built without him. The complex sadness is a gentle weight, like a shroud of old velvet. Arthur is the one who insists. “We’ll send him off properly,” he says, his voice gruff. “A party.”

One of them was being unemotional and he couldn't care less if it made him someone with a heart of stone. But the self-betrayal of the nine-month time span displayed the result on him. He broke his own theory of living and his traitor mind caused him to hope, wish, and anticipate. He became numb when nine month's desires, aspirations, and expectations were crushed in just one event. His face was still hard and stoic but inside he was breaking. The impact of the big loss hit him like the fiery breath of a dragon. His heart was shattering in the tiniest pieces.

SCARLETT FOSTER The rain didn't just fall—it hammered against my paper-thin umbrella as if the sky itself was personally trying to crush whatever dignity I had left. I pulled my thin cardigan tighter around my chest, but the icy autumn wind cut right through it. In my right hand, I squeezed my leather portfolio so hard my knuckles turned white. Inside were my resume, my portfolio, and the last remaining shred of my self-respect. Two hours ago, my landlord had handed me an eviction notice with a cold, practiced smile. “You have until midnight to clear out your things, Miss Foster. Business is business.”

Along with the graceful wings the foliage carried news from the wind. It was a lonely landscape with a few empty benches and many lampposts. Everywhere there was the smell of rain. And somewhere in the distance could be heard the sound of people's voices. But those voices were more like the voices of ghosts that did not want to leave this city. The whole world was spinning, but here everything was waiting for something, maybe someone. It was only when a pigeon landed on one of the branches that the windows in the brick house opened and the sounds of wailing followed. The tall skyscrapers absorbed the crying, memorizing every sound, every note forever. And the hysteria that was in everyone's

And the life I was ready to leave. My phone buzzed once. A message from Rhea: [You home? Need me to pick you up?] Me: [No need. I’m fine. Just closing a door.] Rhea replied with a black heart emoji. I stood again and closed the suitcase. The zipper sounded like a final period. On my way to the door, I looked back once. The room looked the same. Neat. Expensive. Beautiful. But it didn’t feel like home. Not anymore. A part of me had once lived here, but tonight… she died neatly, politely, without making a mess.

When I came back to myself, it was dark outside, and I was lying on the guest room floor in my funeral dress, and the place inside me where Naya lived was still silent. "Naya?" I whispered into my own mind. "Naya, please." Nothing. Just an ache, like a bruise on my soul. They teach you about rejection when you're young. One line in the pack school books: a severed bond takes time to heal. They don't tell you your own wolf can go so deep into grief that she stops answering. They don't tell you how loud your head becomes when the one voice that's been there your whole life goes quiet. I lay on the floor and let myself count everything I had lost in forty-eight hours.

“A part remained to bury the bodies; the rest are with me.” At this moment Sir Novoveski raised his head, and great astonishment was reflected on his face. “In God's name, what do I see?” cried he. Then he rose, went straight to Mellehov, and said, “Ardun! And what art thou doing here, ruffian?”