Chapter 44
The rain had stopped by morning, but the clouds still clung to the sky like heavy curtains, dimming the world into soft gray. Julia sat by the window, the same window her grandmother used to knit beside, watching raindrops trace invisible paths on the glass. Her journal lay open in her lap—half-filled pages, blurred ink, and the weight of a hundred unsaid words.
She hadn't written for two days.
Her heart was tired. Writing used to help her, but now, even words felt distant—like calling for someone in a thick fog, hoping they'd call back.
A gentle knock came from the door.
It creaked open before she could answer. Her mother peeked in, holding a small bundle wrapped in cloth. "I found this in your grandmother's chest. She must've kept it for you."
Julia sat up, eyes curious.
Her mother placed the bundle on her lap and quietly left the room.
With shaking hands, Julia unwrapped the cloth. Inside was a small velvet pouch and a faded letter in her grandmother's handwriting.
*"My dearest Julia,"* it read, *"If you're reading this, I'm no longer by your side. But my love never left you. It lives in your heart, in the stories you tell, in the kindness you give to others. Don't ever think you're alone. I believe in you. I always have."*
Julia clutched the letter to her chest, sobs breaking free as tears rolled down her cheeks. It was like her grandmother was right there again, holding her through the silence.
She opened the pouch and found a silver locket—inside, a photo of her and Grandma when she was six, both smiling in the garden, sunlight in their eyes.
That afternoon, Julia walked barefoot into the backyard. The garden had been neglected, weeds growing over what was once full of color. But beneath the wildness, her grandmother's roses were still alive. Faint, but blooming.
Julia knelt and began clearing the weeds, her fingers in the dirt, her heart slowly stitching itself back together.
"I'll make you proud," she whispered.
"And I'll write again."
That night, for the first time in days, she opened her journal and wrote:
*"Even in a world of sorrow, the smallest bloom can be a beginning."*