Wexley quietly excused himself.
He stood motionless in the hall. The silence pressed in just as heavily. He didn't walk right away, just kept his hand on the doorknob, head bowed, as if catching his breath.
His hands were trembling.
It felt wrong—everything about this day felt wrong. The sterile air, the cool linoleum beneath his shoes, the silence leaking from the room where she no longer breathed.
She was gone.
She had never loved him.
The truth pressed against his ribs like a stone too large to swallow. And suddenly, the enormity of it all began to crush him—like the air itself was turning to lead.
He staggered into a nearby corridor and sat heavily on a bench, his face in his hands.
But even then he'd loved her. He'd loved the way her eyes brightened whenever she saw Damian, the way she taught her students. She had a light around her that attracted him fiercely.
Even at the end—when her voice was too weak to speak above a whisper—she'd never said it. He hadn't expected her to. Elira had always been gentle with her boundaries, firm without cruelty. She'd smiled, thanked him, even let him hold her hand near the end.
But there had been no declarations. No final words.
All that remained was the space she used to fill.
And Damian.
Wexley exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. The ache was sharper than he'd expected.
Damian.
The small, fatherless boy she left behind.
The moment Elira died, something inside Wexley gave way—quietly, like a floorboard creaking beneath too much weight.
If she had lived, he would've taken Damian in without question. He'd imagined it before—quiet evenings, shared meals, reading by firelight, the boy slowly learning to smile again. A future tied to her.
But now… now the future wasn't a shared dream—it was just a burden.
The thought felt vile the moment it formed. He tried to shove it away, but it clung.
He wasn't the boy's father. He wasn't even a blood relative. The only thing that tied him to Damian was Elira.
And she was gone.
He clenched his jaw, scrubbing a hand over his face. The ache behind his eyes burned hot.
You say you love her. You wanted to be the man she could rely on—but the moment she's gone, you're saying you don't want to take responsibility for her son. The exact thing she feared.
The shame was instant. Heavy. Deserved.
He'd stepped in because of her. Because he'd loved her. He told himself he would've done anything to protect her world.
But now that it was just the boy… now that she wasn't here to see what kind of man he really was…
He didn't feel noble.
He felt tired.
Directionless.
Cowardly.
Love didn't always make you noble. Sometimes it just made you tired.
He brushed invisible lint from his coat. His fingers caught on something in the pocket.
He paused.
Pulled it free.
It was the letter.
Elira's letter.
He hadn't read it yet. Hadn't been ready.
But the weight of it in his palm steadied him. Her handwriting peeked through the folds, familiar and soft. He didn't open it—not yet—but just the touch of it quieted something in him.
He closed his eyes and let out a slow breath.
There was time.
He didn't need to decide everything right now.
Later.
For now, he had a boy to care for. A boy who had just lost the one person in the world who made him feel safe.
He slipped the letter back into his coat, stood, and looked up.
Steadying himself, he walked down the corridor. His path veered left, away from the hospital exit.
He stepped into a modest jewelry shop with a small hand-painted sign and fogged windows. The kind of place Elira would've liked—unpretentious, a little worn, probably family-owned.
He rang the bell, stepped inside, and gently approached the counter.
An elderly woman stood at the counter. She wore a long skirt the color of dusk and a bodice fastened high at the throat, where a small onyx brooch lay. Her sleeves were pinned at the elbow, revealing fine, veined hands dusted with silver polish. Hair the color of frost was twisted into a tight coil at her nape, held by three black jet pins that caught the light.
But something about her gave him pause.
The way she moved, the way her eyes settled on his face with quiet knowing, as if she had already known what he came for… long before he walked through the door.
When she moved, her chatelaine belt clinked softly. A magnifier, a key, and a miniature locket swung gently from its chains.
"I'm… looking for a pendant," he said, voice raw. "Something small. A miniature container. Heart-shaped, if possible."
She nodded and brought out a tray of simple pendants.
"I'd like it to open," he said. "I need it to hold something."
The woman paused, gave him a long, knowing look, then nodded.
"I have just the thing," she said quietly, walking toward the back of the shop.
She returned with a brown box and set it gently on the counter, her fingers trembling ever so slightly. Not with age. This was someone who understood grief.
Inside was a pendant made of silver—plain and elegant. Not heart-shaped, but softly curved—like the way Elira used to tuck her hair behind her ear when she was thinking.
The silver seemed to glow faintly under the shop light.
"What kind of silver is this?" Wexley asked quietly, turning it in his palm. "It feels… different."
The old woman smiled, soft and distant. "One of a kind," she said. "I found it on my travels a long time ago. Spent years looking for another like it. Never did."
"Why not put it up for auction?" he asked, gently. "A piece like this—someone would've paid a fortune."
Her gaze didn't waver. "Some things aren't meant to be sold," she said quietly. "Only passed on, when the time is right."
He said nothing. But a faint chill ran through him, unexplainable.
"This is perfect," he said, unsettled without knowing why.
She nodded, slowly, like someone who had been expecting this moment for a very long time.
"Bank notes or coins, madam?" he said, reaching into his coat pocket.
"Either is fine," she replied. He nodded and produced a coin pouch, dropping two shillings into the woman's hand.
By the time Wexley returned, the undertaker was already waiting. He handed him a small wooden container, plain and practical—the kind typically provided until a custom urn could be arranged.
He cradled it with both hands, like it might vanish if he didn't.
Damian was sitting exactly where he'd left him.
Wexley walked over and crouched beside him.
"Damian," he said softly. "What would you like to do with the ashes?"
The boy's fingers curled in his lap. His eyes didn't move. But after a moment, his voice came—quiet and thin.
"I want to scatter them."
Wexley nodded.
"We will," he said softly. "But I thought you might want to keep a little part of her close, too."
He pulled the pendant from his coat, opened it, and used a small spoon to transfer a portion of ash inside.
He had nothing else to give him. Didn't even know if it would help. Instead, he held it out.
"So you can always have a part of your mama close by."
Damian took it carefully.
His fingers curled around the pendant.
He didn't say anything. But his grip tightened, pulling it closer to his chest.
He didn't let go—not in the hallway, not in the carriage, not even when Wexley gently reached for his hand. He didn't pull away, but he didn't react either. Just stared out the window, thumb pressed against the locket like he could press her into memory.
⸻
The memorial was held two days later in a small stone chapel at the edge of town. It wasn't a church. Elira wouldn't have wanted that.
No sermons. No crosses. No incense drifting through stained glass.
Just candles. Wildflowers in old jam jars. Paper lanterns made by her students, strung with twine across the beams.
The chapel was full.
Children filed in first. Some clutched flowers. Some held notes folded so tight the ink had smudged. Their shoes were stiff, their collars too tight. But they came.
Their faces were pale. Lips chewed. Eyes flicking toward the photo of her at the front.
She was smiling in it. Holding a book. The candlelight made her eyes glint softly.
Damian sat in the second row.
He didn't squirm like the other children. Didn't fidget. Didn't glance around. He sat very still, hands locked over the pendant resting against his chest.
Wexley sat beside him, one leg bouncing in a tight, jittery rhythm.
⸻
People stood to speak.
A former student read a poem, voice cracking halfway through.
Another shared how Elira made even the quietest child feel brave, just by asking the kinds of questions that made them feel seen.
One of the teachers—a tall man with ink-stained cuffs—said she had a gift for finding gold in muddy waters. "She always had her head stuck in a book," he said. "Talked about them like she'd lived through them herself."
Neighbors spoke. They remembered her laugh. The way she greeted everyone like an old friend. How she made people feel known.
⸻
Wexley spoke too.
He hadn't written anything down. He just stood there, gripping the edge of the podium like it might keep him from falling apart.
"She shined so brightly," he said, already fraying at the edges. "Not just in how she taught. Or how she listened. But in the way she moved through the world—like she belonged to it, but never quite needed it."
He paused, swallowing hard.
"I loved her." His voice cracked. "I don't think I ever told her. Not really. I think she knew. But she never said anything. She didn't have to."
He looked down, blinking fast. His knuckles whitened around the podium edge.
"She didn't love me. Not the way I loved her. And I told myself that was okay. That just being near her was enough. That helping her, showing up, waiting quietly… was enough."
A breath trembled out of him. "And maybe it was. Maybe it still is. But I miss her. I miss her so much I forget how to breathe sometimes."
He looked up then. Eyes red. Voice barely above a whisper.
"She made me feel like I was enough. Even when I knew I wasn't. And I'd give anything to hear her laugh one more time."
⸻
"Young man?" the woman hosting the service said gently, looking at Damian. "Would you like to say something?"
He didn't move.
Then slowly, he stood.
Every head turned. Some with pity. Some with quiet curiosity. Dozens of eyes followed him as he stepped up to the dais.
He clutched the pendant all the way.
No paper. No notes.
He looked out over the crowd. His lips parted.
He looked for her instinctively—his eyes scanning the rows, searching.
Mama…
—but there was no one there to answer and he froze.
The walls closed in. The lights blurred. The room was too quiet. Too expectant.
His throat closed like a fist.
His breath hitched. Then quickened.
It was too much. Too many eyes. Too much silence.
His fingers dug into the pendant. His chest heaved, lips parting—but no words came. Just gasps. Ragged. Wild.
He staggered back a step. The silence pressed harder. The room tilted.
Wexley rose at once. "Damian—"
But before he could move, Mara touched his arm.
"I'll go," she said gently.
"But—" he began.
She gave him a look.
He stopped. Sat down beside Calla and Cain, both watching him with wide, worried eyes.
⸻
Damian had already turned and stumbled down the aisle. He pushed past knees, eyes wide and unfocused. Nearly tripped—but didn't stop. Reached the chapel doors. Shoved them open.
And slipped outside into the air.
⸻
Mara found him a few minutes later behind the chapel, crouched against the stone wall, forehead to his knees.
His breathing came fast—shallow and desperate. His arms folded tight over his chest. His shoulders trembled. But his face stayed dry.
She didn't say anything.
She just sat beside him. Quiet. Careful not to crowd.
Then she started humming—soft and low. A tune she used to sing to Calla and Cain when they were small and afraid.
It wasn't meant to fix anything. Just to say: I'm here. Take your time.
Slowly, Damian leaned toward her. His head found her shoulder.
His breathing eased. The sharp gasps softened.
Mara shifted gently, cradling his head in her lap. She kept humming. Her hand moved through his hair, slow and rhythmic, like brushing tangles from a child too tired to protest.
The tune was familiar.
Not the melody—at first he thought that—but something quieter. The way she hummed it. Soft, slow, just under her breath.
Mama used to hum like that.
On rainy afternoons when the wind scratched at the windows, when his fever ran high and she sat beside him with a cool cloth on his forehead. She'd hum without thinking—off-key, a little rough—but it made the world feel smaller. Safe.
Hearing it now was like brushing against the hem of memory.
His eyes squeezed shut. He curled tighter into Mara's lap.
After a while, he drifted off.
And for a little while, they stayed like that—together, quiet, under the open sky.
⸻
They were back at Mara's home.
The children were in the garden. The sun was beginning to set, staining the sky with long ribbons of amber and rose.
Inside, the house was quiet, save for the sound of the kettle beginning to hiss.
Mara didn't turn from the counter when she asked,
"What are you planning to do with him?"
The question landed without ceremony.
Wexley blinked from his place by the fireplace. He had been standing there for several minutes, unmoving, as though waiting for the room to offer answers.
He looked up.
"What?"
"Damian."
Her voice was even. Not cold, but measured—like someone trying very hard to stay calm.
She poured the hot water over loose tea leaves. Her hand barely shook.
"You've been quiet since we left the chapel," she said. "I thought maybe you were thinking things through."
Wexley hesitated. His throat worked as he swallowed.
"I have," he said finally.
She turned then, meeting his eyes.
"And?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Rubbed his face with both hands.
"I don't know if I can do this," he said, low. "Raising a child. A grieving child. One who doesn't speak. One I don't even—"
He stopped himself, too late.
Mara's brow furrowed.
"Don't even what?"
"I'm not his father," Wexley snapped, more harshly than he meant to.
"I'm not even family. I was just…" He laughed bitterly. "I was someone in love with a woman who didn't love me back."
The kettle hissed louder.
Wexley paced away, hands clenching.
"I wanted to step in. I did. I tried. But she's gone, Mara. And I'm not sure I have anything left to give."
There was silence.
Mara didn't look away.
"You think I didn't notice?" she said quietly. "At the hospital? After the memorial? You're not just grieving, Wex. You're pulling away."
He didn't answer.
"He's a child," she went on, voice tightening. "He just lost his mother. And now you're already thinking about how to let go of him too?"
His hands curled into fists.
"You don't understand—"
"Don't I?" Her voice rose.
"I'm a single mother with two children and no husband. Don't talk to me about what's hard. I didn't choose to raise Calla and Cain alone. I had to. And if I can make it work—"
"Then take him."
The words came fast. Sharp. Defensive.
"If you care so much," Wexley said, "why don't you take him?"
Silence.
Mara stared at him.
And for the first time, she looked uncertain.
He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth. But he didn't take them back.
"You said it yourself," he added, softer now. "You have children. You know what to do. You've already bonded with him more than I have. You held him. I couldn't even reach him. You got through."
"That doesn't mean he's mine," she said—but her voice faltered at the end.
They both stood there. Staring. Breathing hard.
Neither spoke.
⸻
Outside, in the garden
Calla and Cain had been playing near the vegetable beds when the voices filtered through the open window.
They froze.
Calla's hand stilled mid-air, hovering over a dandelion puff.
Cain looked at her. She looked back.
Neither said anything.
Damian sat nearby, against the garden wall, knees to his chest, head tilted to the side—like he was only half listening.
But his fingers were curled around the pendant.
He didn't look up. Didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
Calla's brow furrowed.
She gave Cain a quick glance, then gently touched Damian's shoulder.
"Hey," she said softly. "Wanna come help us build a fort behind the shed? It's quieter over there."
Cain nodded. "We can bring biscuits."
Damian didn't answer.
But after a long moment, he stood.
Calla took his hand without asking. Cain grabbed the tin of shortbread from the garden bench.
And together, the three of them quietly moved away from the voices—toward the far edge of the garden, where the air was still, and no one was deciding what to do with anyone.
⸻
Mara turned and walked away, her arms tight around herself.
Wexley let out a heavy sigh and dropped onto the nearest bench, his elbows resting on his knees. He dragged both hands over his face, then let them fall, limp and useless in his lap.
For a moment, he just sat there—breathing, blinking, staring at the soft churn of clouds above the garden.
Then his fingers reached into his coat pocket and found the envelope. Elira's letter.
He had kept it with him every day since the funeral, worn soft now around the edges, but still unopened. He had told himself the time wasn't right. That there would be a better moment. That he needed to be strong before he read her words.
But there was no right time for something like this. Just silence. Just ache.
He turned it over in his hands like he always did, half-hoping it would open itself and speak for her. As if it could. As if she'd be there, tucking his coat tighter over his shoulders and scolding him for reading letters in the cold.
His thumb traced her name again.
And this time, he breathed in—then let it go slowly as he broke the wax seal.
⸻
My dear Wexley,
You always knew I was a terrible letter-writer. I'd rather talk until you fall asleep than put a single word on paper—but I've found there are some things I needed to say. And no time left to say them.
Thank you.
For everything.
You were there when I was too proud to ask for help. You didn't push when I turned you away, and you didn't leave when I asked you to. You were kind to me. Gentle with Damian. You never asked for more than I could give, and somehow you still gave more than I ever expected.
I loved that date, you know.
I never told you, but I loved every minute of it. The surprise. The music. The warmth. It was one of the last times I felt… alive, not just breathing. I think I laughed more that night than I had in years.
I knew how you felt. I always did. But I couldn't let myself go there. I was afraid. Damian was my whole world, and I thought giving you a place in it might make it harder for him—harder when I left.
But these last few days… You've been there. Not just for me, but for him. And I saw something I hadn't let myself see before.
Maybe I didn't love you, not the way you loved me. But I would've liked to try.
I would've liked to see what might have grown, if we'd had time.
This is selfish of me, but I have to ask. Please take care of Damian. Please. Not out of duty. Not because I asked you to. But because I know you love him. And I believe—deep down—I think he could love you too, if given time.
Don't let him grow up alone.
Forgive me. Forgive me for everything I won't be able to do. But don't let this be the end for him.
Love,
Elira
⸻
Wexley's hands trembled slightly as he folded the letter back along its original creases. His eyes burned. He blinked hard, willing the tears back, refusing to let them fall.
He pressed the letter to his chest, breathed in, and stood.
⸻
He found Mara leaning against the window frame, staring out into the garden. Her face was tight with thought, eyes narrowed—not at the trees or the flowers, but at the children. Cain and Calla were chasing one another through the low hedges, all giggles and shrieks. Damian sat apart on a stone ledge, hands in his lap, head bowed, still and far away.
"I'm sorry," Wexley said softly behind her.
Mara didn't look at him. Her voice came after a long moment.
"I would take him in a heartbeat," she murmured. "But you know it wouldn't work."
Wexley stepped beside her.
"You know I had to leave my late husband's family behind," she said. "But… I never told you why."
Wexley stood, watching the side of her face.
"No. I suppose you didn't."
She kept her eyes on the children.
"He was a soldier. My husband. He was called for a peacekeeping mission abroad when I was eight months along. He'd promised he'd be home in time for the birth. I waited. Every time someone knocked, every time the bell rang, I thought it was him."
She paused.
"But it wasn't. It was two soldiers. Holding his uniform. His dog tags."
Her jaw flexed.
"His family came for me that same week. Not to grieve. Not to hold my hand. They wanted the benefits. The grants. The payout. But it was in my name. So when they couldn't get it, they came for everything else."
She swallowed, bitter.
"They took the house. Not legally—they just forced their way in and threw out my things. Said I was squatting. Spread rumors through the parish that I'd seduced him for money. That the baby wasn't his. People believed them. Or didn't care enough not to."
Wexley was still.
"Shops stopped selling to me. The church council labeled me indecent. I lost my job. They followed me. Knocked on windows at night. Once, someone left a dead bird on the doorstep."
Mara exhaled shakily.
"I went into labor early. Alone. In a stranger's attic, with no midwife willing to come. I thought they would die. They didn't—but his family didn't stop. They tried to take the children. Said I was unfit. Said I had no claim."
"And did you fight them?"
"I did." Her voice sharpened. "Tooth and nail. Court to court. Office to office. I starved. Slept in basements. I kept going because I had no choice."
She finally turned to him.
"I would never put another child through that again. Not if I can help it. If I took Damian, they'd come sniffing again. I've worked too hard to keep Cain and Calla safe."
Wexley didn't speak for a long time. His eyes stayed fixed on the garden. On the boy sitting so very still—separate even in company, like he was made of something quieter than the world around him.
When he finally found his voice, it was low and hoarse.
"Then teach me."
Mara turned, surprised.
"I'm not ready," he said plainly. "I don't know what I'm doing. I've spent my whole life in books and ledgers and policy. I don't know how to raise a child—especially not one who's grieving like this. But I want to try."
She didn't interrupt.
"I don't want to make decisions for him out of guilt or fear," he continued. "I don't want to place him with strangers. And I won't let him feel like an obligation. So let me stay. Just for a while."
"You want to move in?"
"I want to learn," Wexley corrected. "How to cook something a child will actually eat. How to sit beside silence without breaking it. How to know when to wait and when to ask. I need time, Mara. Time to understand how to be what he needs—if I can."
Mara studied him, searching his face for cracks or excuses. But all she found was fatigue, sincerity… and something close to desperation.
"I won't ask you to raise him," Wexley added. "But I'm asking you to help me not fail him."
Mara was silent.
Then—softly, without looking at him—she said, "You can take the guest room. But you're doing the laundry."
A laugh escaped him—rough and short. He nodded, once, grateful.
They stood side by side in the quiet again. And for a breath, it almost felt settled.