Chapter 38
The sun had already dipped below the mountains when Julia returned home, her footsteps dragging, her thoughts tangled. The house felt colder than usual. Quiet. Too quiet. Like the walls were holding their breath.
She sat down on the worn wooden floor of her bedroom, knees pulled up to her chest. It had been a long day—school, stares, whispers, the weight of pretending she was fine.
She wasn't fine.
She hadn't been for a long time.
And now, she felt like she was breaking in silence.
She reached under her bed, fingers brushing against the small tin box she'd kept hidden since the funeral. Inside were letters she had written to her grandmother but never sent. Letters she wrote when the sadness got too loud. Some were stained with tears, others with shaky drawings of memories that no one else seemed to remember but her.
She pulled one out—the one she'd written three days after the funeral.
*"Dear Grandma,
Today I woke up and forgot how to smile again...
Everyone tells me to be strong, but I'm just a girl. I miss you. I miss your laugh, the way your hands made tea feel like medicine.
I'm scared. What if the world forgets about you? What if I forget how it felt to be loved the way only you loved me?"*
She folded it back, too afraid to read the rest.
That's when her mother knocked gently on the door.
"Julia?"
She didn't respond.
The door creaked open.
Her mother stepped inside, eyes tired but kind. She didn't speak at first, just sat beside her daughter on the floor.
"I found this," she said, placing an old envelope on Julia's lap. The handwriting was delicate, almost trembling with time. *Grandma's writing.*
Julia's hands shook.
She opened it slowly, unfolding the aged paper. The letter wasn't long.
*"My sweet Julia,
If you're reading this, I'm no longer by your side in body, but my love is forever stitched into your soul.
You were always my light, even on my darkest days.
Remember: You were not born to carry sadness alone. You were born to write it into stars, to turn pain into poems, to love even when it hurts.
Please smile again—for you.
I love you more than every cup of tea we ever shared.
Grandma."*
Julia didn't even notice the tears until they soaked the page.
Her mother wrapped an arm around her, and for the first time in weeks, Julia didn't pull away.
"She wrote it before she passed," her mother whispered. "She wanted me to give it to you when you were ready."
"I don't know if I'll ever be ready," Julia said softly.
"That's okay," her mother replied. "Healing isn't a race. It's a quiet walk. Sometimes you go backwards. Sometimes you just sit and breathe."
Julia leaned into the warmth of her mother's shoulder, the letter pressed against her heart like a bandage made of love.
That night, she opened her journal for the first time in days and began to write—not stories, not chapters, not plots.
Just truth.
*"I'm still sad. But maybe that's okay.
Maybe sadness is a room we pass through—not a home we have to stay in forever."*
As she finished the last line, she looked at her reflection in the darkened window.
She still wasn't smiling.
But her eyes—those eyes had a flicker of something again.
Hope.