Chapter 24
Julia sat beneath the old fig tree where her grandmother used to tell stories. The wind was soft today, brushing gently through her hair like fingers comforting her. In her lap lay a faded notebook, its pages nearly full of memories, thoughts, and stories she never showed anyone.
She flipped to a blank page and began to write:
*"Dear Grandma,*
*I miss you so much. Sometimes I pretend you're still here, just in the kitchen making tea or humming your favorite song. But when I open my eyes, it's just me… alone. I smile less these days, laugh even less. But I'm trying, I promise."*
Tears dotted the page, blurring her words. She paused to take a deep breath and let the wind dry her face.
"I know you believed in me more than I ever did in myself. I still remember your words — that stories have power, that even sadness can become something beautiful when it's written down. So I'm writing, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts."
She stared at the sky — a wide canvas of blues and whites. Birds flew freely, without fear, without grief.
"I wish I could fly like them, free from this pain. But maybe… maybe pain is part of the story too."
As she closed the notebook, she felt something strange — a sudden gust of wind lifted a fallen leaf and swirled it around her before gently placing it on her lap. Attached was a tiny feather — white, delicate.
Julia smiled, really smiled, for the first time in days.
She looked up. "I know that was you, Grandma."
Her heart felt a little lighter. The ache was still there, but in that moment, it wasn't all she felt.
Hope had returned — soft as a feather, quiet as a whisper… but it was there.
And that was enough.