The sun had barely risen when Ann stirred awake, her body heavy as though weighed down by the night itself. The room was silent, except for the faint hum of the city beyond the windows. For a moment, she stayed still, staring at the ceiling, her mind drifting through memories she wished she could forget and moments she would never get back. "Ann?" Oliver's voice was soft, almost tentative. She didn't move at first, letting him speak before answering. "I'm awake," she murmured, voice hoarse. He stepped closer, carrying two cups of tea. "I thought you might like this. Just a little warmth to start the day." Ann accepted the cup without speaking, her hands trembling slightly. She sipped, the liquid lukewarm, tasting faintly of honey he had added. "You've barely slept," Oliver said, settling into the chair opposite her. "Last night, I heard you pacing again. You shouldn't push yourself." "I couldn't sleep," she replied simply, her gaze fixed on the window. "The house… it's too quiet."
Oliver's fingers drummed lightly against his cup. "I understand. I feel it too." Ann glanced at him. "You do?" "Yes," he said. "I feel the emptiness as much as you do. But we still have to move forward, somehow." Her lips pressed together. "Move forward. Such a meaningless phrase right now." Oliver's expression softened. "I know it feels like that. But Davis… your parents… they would have wanted us to live. Not just survive, but to actually live, Ann." Ann turned her gaze back to her tea, swirling it absentmindedly. "And what do you call this, Oliver? Surviving?" Her voice cracked. "I can barely function. Some days, I can't even make it through an hour without thinking… without remembering everything." He stood and approached her. "Ann, I can't take the pain away. I wish I could. But I can be here, right now, while you carry it." "I don't want to be carried," she said quietly, almost too soft to hear. "I want to be left alone with my grief. That's the only way I know how to feel alive."
Oliver nodded slowly, as though he had anticipated this. "I understand. I'll give you space." She finally lifted her eyes, and for the first time that morning, she looked at him fully. "I don't need advice, Oliver. I don't need suggestions. I just… need someone to be here and let me sit in the silence." "I can do that," he replied, voice gentle. Ann just nodded . The day dragged on. Ann wandered through the house in a daze, touching the walls, the furniture, Davis' toys, her parents' photographs. Each object brought a sharp pang of memory, a laugh, a word, a smile she would never hear again.
Oliver remained nearby, doing small tasks around the house, keeping her company without pressing, without asking. He brought her meals she wouldn't eat, fetched water she wouldn't drink, tidied rooms she didn't care about. He moved quietly, like a shadow, always near but never intrusive. When the doorbell rang mid-afternoon, Ann barely registered it. Oliver answered, speaking softly to the visitor while she continued to sit in the living room, her gaze empty. "I'm just checking in," a familiar voice said. One of the family friends had come to see how she was coping. "We were worried…" Ann barely nodded. "I appreciate it." The woman lingered, unsure of what to say. "Have you eaten today?" "No," Ann said simply. "Would you like me to stay a while?" "No, thank you," Ann replied. Her voice was calm, detached. She didn't look at her. She didn't feel much of anything. After the visitor left, Oliver returned, closing the door softly behind him. "Are you hungry?" Ann shook her head. "No." "You haven't been eating properly for days," he said. "I know." Her voice was quiet, almost mechanical. "But I don't feel like food." He knelt beside her again, his eyes searching hers. "You have to care for yourself, Ann. Even just a little."
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Her body was drained, her mind heavy with memories that kept looping like a broken record. The grief was no longer sharp and sudden; it was steady, relentless, pulling her down day by day. She just wished everyone could leave her alone. She felt so broken and didn't need distractions. By evening, Ann wandered into Davis' room, brushing her fingers over the small bed. His pillow was still warm from the sun streaming in earlier. She pressed her forehead to the mattress, inhaling the faint scent of his hair, lingering even after months. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry I couldn't save you."
Oliver followed silently, standing at the door. He didn't speak, didn't touch her, just let her grief be hers. The sky outside darkened, the first drops of rain tapping softly against the windows. Ann sat there for hours, staring at the empty room, speaking softly to a child who would never answer. "Davis… Mama's here. Always here." She finally fell asleep on the bed, curled tightly, clutching his small blanket. Oliver stayed in the doorway, watching, waiting, wishing he could do more.
Late at night, the house was still. The rain pattered gently, mingling with her quiet sobs. Ann's grief had settled like a living thing into the corners of the home, and though she slept fitfully, her mind never rested. She dreamt of moments she couldn't reach back to , laughter, innocence, warmth , all stolen.
When she awoke, the world outside had moved on. Birds sang. Cars drove by. Neighbors went about their lives. But inside, Ann's world remained frozen. Oliver approached her once again. "I know you feel the world has moved without you," he said softly. "But I'm here. And I will not leave."
Ann turned to him, her eyes hollow. "I know," she whispered. "And I… appreciate it."
But in the silence that followed, she realized something: the grief was no longer raw and sudden. It had become something else. A slow, relentless companion. One that would shape every day until she found a way to live… or a way to fight. And though she didn't know it yet, the first seeds of her resolve , quiet, careful, unspoken , were already beginning to take root.