Chapter 47
Julia woke before dawn, the sky still wrapped in shades of soft blue and purple. For the first time in weeks, she didn't feel the heavy weight pressing down on her chest. There was still pain, yes—but it didn't feel like it was suffocating her anymore. Instead, it sat beside her like an old friend, quiet and gentle.
She reached beneath her pillow and pulled out the letter—the one she had written to her grandma in Chapter 46. The paper was slightly wrinkled now, folded and unfolded too many times, but the words still glowed with emotion.
Without thinking, she whispered, "Good morning, Grandma."
The silence in the room didn't feel empty anymore. It felt full. As if someone was listening.
She got up, wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, and tiptoed into the kitchen. The house was still asleep, but Julia moved with purpose. She brewed tea—rooibos, her grandma's favorite—and added a small spoon of honey, just the way they used to share it.
As she sat by the window, sipping the warm liquid, she opened her journal. Her hands hovered for a moment, unsure of what to say. But then, the words flowed—freely, beautifully, like a river breaking through a dam.
> *"I remember how your laugh filled every corner of this house, Grandma.
> I remember how your hands smelled like vanilla and soil from the garden.
> I remember you humming while you worked, telling me stories of your youth, and tucking me in at night with a smile that made everything okay.
> Since you've been gone, I forgot how to smile.
> But I think… I'm starting to remember again."*
She paused, her fingers trembling. A tear rolled down her cheek, but it didn't sting this time. It felt soft. Healing.
Later that morning, after breakfast, she asked her mother if she could visit the garden. Her mother only nodded, eyes glistening, as if she understood exactly what Julia needed.
The garden had grown a little wild over the past few months. Weeds had crept between the stones, and the roses were in desperate need of trimming. But somehow, it felt alive. Magic clung to the air like the scent of jasmine.
Julia walked to the old stone bench beneath the pear tree—the one where she and Grandma used to sit on sunny afternoons.
She ran her hand along the smooth, weathered surface and sat down slowly, clutching her journal in her lap.
"Hi," she whispered, "I brought you something."
She opened the journal and began to read aloud—her letter, her thoughts, her pain, her memories.
And as the words filled the garden, something happened.
The wind began to blow gently, circling her in a slow, warm breeze. Leaves danced around her feet, and a single white butterfly floated down from the tree branches above.
It landed on her knee. Just rested there—quiet and still.
Julia froze, staring at the delicate wings. Her breath caught in her throat.
"I miss you," she said softly, voice cracking. "But I think I'm ready now. Ready to live again. To feel again. I'm going to keep writing… for both of us."
The butterfly lifted its wings and flew up, circling her once before disappearing into the trees.
And in that moment—Julia smiled.
It wasn't big or perfect or glowing. It was small, soft, and a little broken. But it was real. And it was hers.
Grandma would've been proud.