Chapter 40
The next morning, Julia stood by the window, watching the dew cling to the blades of grass outside. Sunlight gently filtered through the clouds, painting golden streaks across her small room. For once, the weight in her chest didn't feel as suffocating. There was a strange stillness inside her, like the moment before a storm… but it wasn't fear. It was something new.
She reached for her notebook—the one she'd once locked away in a drawer, too afraid to write in after her grandmother passed. Her fingers hesitated above the cover, then slowly flipped it open.
Blank pages stared back.
Pages that had waited patiently for her to return.
She sat down at her desk and began to write. Not about dragons or distant lands. Not about magic or princesses. This time, she wrote about the real girl behind the pen.
She wrote:
*Dear Grandma,*
*It's been a while. I'm sorry I stopped writing. I didn't know how to carry all this pain without you. I didn't know who I was without your voice guiding me, your laugh filling the room. I miss your hands, your tea, your songs. I miss the way you believed in me when no one else did—not even myself.*
*Everything changed when you left, and I didn't know how to stay the same.*
The words came like a flood. Julia didn't stop to fix her spelling, didn't care about neat handwriting. She poured every tear she hadn't cried, every ache she'd buried. And somewhere between each sentence… she began to feel lighter.
---
Later that day, she wandered to the village post box, letter in hand. She knew no one would deliver it. It wasn't meant for anyone else but her. Still, she slipped the envelope inside, addressed to the sky:
*"To Grandma, From Julia"*
As she walked home, something shifted in her chest. A quiet peace. She didn't know what healing looked like. But maybe it started like this—small, soft, and silent.
---
Back at home, her mother was in the kitchen, quietly folding laundry. She looked up when Julia entered, her face tired, her hands trembling from working too many hours to make up for too little money.
"You okay?" she asked, surprised.
Julia nodded. "I think so."
Her mother walked over and brushed a loose strand of hair from Julia's face. "You look more like her every day."
That made Julia's throat tighten, but she didn't cry. Not this time.
"Do you think she'd be proud of me?" she whispered.
Her mother smiled, teary-eyed. "She always was."
---
That night, Julia curled under her blanket, staring at the stars through the window. She whispered the stories she used to tell her grandmother when she was little. Soft, hopeful ones. And as her eyes fluttered shut, a dream found her—her grandmother standing beneath the oak tree, arms open, smiling the way she always did.
"Don't be afraid to live, my girl," her grandmother whispered. "The world needs your heart."