Grief did not scream anymore.
It whispered. It moved through Ann's days like a shadow, silent but ever-present, clinging to her skin no matter where she went. The house no longer echoed with sobs or raised voices. Instead, it breathed softly, carefully, as if afraid to disturb her. Ann woke each morning at the same hour, long before the sun rose. She lay still, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the familiar weight in her chest to settle. Some days it came like a dull ache. Other days, it crushed her so deeply she could not move. She rose slowly and walked through the house barefoot. The kitchen was untouched. Plates stacked neatly. The refrigerator full of food she did not eat. The smell of coffee lingered faintly, brewed by Oliver every morning even though she never drank it. She sat at the dining table, staring at the empty chair where Davis used to kick his legs and hum nonsense songs. "Eat something," Oliver said gently from the doorway. Ann shook her head without looking at him. "I'm not hungry."
"You haven't been hungry in weeks." "I know." He stepped closer, setting a plate in front of her. Toast. Eggs. Fruit. Carefully prepared, untouched. "Just a few bites."
She pushed the plate away. "Please don't."
Oliver sighed quietly and took the seat across from her. "You can't go on like this."
She finally looked at him. "Like what?"
"Like you're fading." Her lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. "Maybe I already have." He reached across the table and took her hand. She didn't pull away, but she didn't squeeze back either. "You're still here," he said firmly. "And as long as you are, so am I."
She nodded absently. Later that afternoon, her phone rang. She stared at it for a long time before answering. "Hello?" "Mrs. Author," the woman on the line said gently. "This is Dr. Emeka from St. Luke's Hospital. We've been trying to reach you." Ann closed her eyes. "About what?" "Your missed appointments," he said carefully. "And… your well-being." "What appointment? And please, I'm fine," Ann replied flatly. There was a pause. "Mrs. Author, with everything you've been through, it's important we talk."
"I don't want to talk," Ann said. "I want to be left alone." "We're concerned". "I said I'm fine," she snapped, then hung up. Oliver had been standing in the hallway, listening.
"That was the hospital," he said softly.
Ann shrugged. "They worry too much."
"They're professionals," he said. "They just want to help." "I don't need help," she replied sharply. "I need silence." That night, Ann dreamed of Davis. He stood at the end of a long corridor, smiling, his eyes too knowing for a child. She ran toward him, screaming his name, but the corridor stretched endlessly. "Mama," he said softly.
She reached out, and woke up screaming.
Oliver was there instantly, holding her as she shook violently. "He was there," she sobbed. "He was right there." "I know," Oliver whispered. "It's just a dream." "No," she cried. "It felt real, don't tell me it's a dream." Ann broke down in tears. Days blurred into one another. Ann stopped answering calls. She stopped seeing friends. She stopped stepping outside. The world beyond the gates no longer existed. Sometimes she sat in the living room and spoke aloud, addressing people who were no longer there.
"Do you remember this place?" she asked the empty air one afternoon. "Daddy loved this couch. He said it made him feel important." Oliver stood in the doorway, watching silently. She laughed suddenly. "He would've hated what happened to us." Oliver's jaw tightened. "Ann" She turned to him. "Do you think God hates me?" He frowned. "Of course not." "Then why did He take everyone?" Oliver had no answer. That evening, Ann refused to leave Davis' room. She lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling, murmuring his name over and over.
Oliver knelt beside her. "Ann, please. Come to bed." "I don't want to sleep," she said. "When I sleep, I lose him again." "You're scaring me," he admitted quietly. She turned her head to look at him. "Why?" "Because you're disappearing," he said. "And I don't know how to bring you back." She studied his face for a long moment. "I don't want to be brought back," she whispered. The words hung heavy between them. The next morning, Ann did not get out of bed. She stared at the wall, unresponsive, her body present but her mind far away. Oliver called her name again and again. She did not answer. By evening, Oliver made a call. "Doctor," he said into the phone, his voice controlled but urgent. "I think we need help." In the bedroom, Ann lay still, eyes open, whispering softly to herself. "They're all gone." And somewhere deep inside her, something fragile began to fracture.