The rain had been falling for so long that Ariana couldn't remember what sunlight looked like. The windows of the Blake mansion ran in trembling rivulets, sliding down as if the sky itself were mourning. The house—once full of laughter, music, and warmth—felt hollow now, each corner pressing against her chest like a weight she couldn't lift.
Her mother's hospital bed had been removed, but Ariana could still see it in her mind: the pale sheets, the soft hum of machines, her mother's fragile fingers reaching for hers. "When the rain stops… don't hide from the world," her mother had whispered, a faint smile on her lips. "Look for the rainbow. Don't disappear into grief." Ariana had nodded then, but the words had felt impossible.
Now, at home, they lingered in every quiet corner. Ariana sat on the edge of the sofa, tracing the faint lavender scent that remained from her mother's favorite candle. She remembered how her mother used to make breakfast on rainy mornings—scrambled eggs, toast, and the way she hummed softly while stirring the pan. Those small moments of care, of ordinary love, felt impossibly distant.
School had been her first real test since her mother's death. Ariana had no choice but to return, even though every step down the hall felt heavier than the last. Lessons blurred together; she dropped pencils, forgot homework, and answered questions incorrectly, lost in a fog of absence. Her friends whispered, teachers asked if she was okay, but no one could reach the version of her trapped inside grief.
Between classes, she sometimes pulled her notebook close and wrote little things her mother had said, or lines from conversations that made her smile once. "You're brave, Ari. You always hated goodbyes," one voice echoed in her memory. Tears came sometimes, silent and sudden, but Ariana let them pass quietly, letting her grief live in small, honest moments instead of loud, dramatic gestures.
By the afternoon, she found herself staring out the classroom window, watching rain slide down the glass. Her pen hovered over blank paper. Slowly, she began to write, letting grief pour onto the page, not as melodrama, but as memory, longing, and truth. One word at a time, she reminded herself that even in loss, life demanded her attention. Even in the storm, she had to keep going.
The rain continued, relentless and unforgiving, but Ariana lifted her gaze, imagining her mother's hand resting briefly on her shoulder, whispering encouragement that only she could feel. That small presence gave her enough strength to continue, one quiet step at a time.
By the time Ariana closed her notebook, the bell had already rung for the next class. She slung her backpack over her shoulder and walked the hallways, her steps hollow, her mind still drifting back to her mother. The sound of laughter and chatter around her barely registered; she could hear only the faint echo of her mother humming while preparing breakfast, the soft way she would smooth Ariana's hair back from her face.
She remembered the mornings when her mother had pressed a warm mug of cocoa into her hands, whispering, "No matter what happens, Ari, you have to keep moving." Ariana had nodded obediently then, but now the words felt heavier than ever, impossible to follow. Every memory tugged at her chest, making her shuffle along like the world had grown too heavy to bear.
Her first class of the afternoon was literature, but the pages of her textbook were a blur. She stared at the lines, comprehension slipping through her fingers. When the teacher called on her, she muttered an answer that came out wrong. A quiet sigh from the classmate beside her reminded her she wasn't invisible, but the gesture barely registered. She felt suspended, not entirely present anywhere.
Lunch offered no reprieve. Ariana sat at a corner table, tracing patterns on the tray, remembering the smell of her mother's cooking. She missed the way her mother laughed when she accidentally burned toast, the way she would scold gently, calling Ariana "my clumsy little shadow." The memory brought a pang of longing that settled deep in her chest. She barely touched her food, pushing it around as if she could feed her mother through the motions.
By the time school ended, Ariana's head throbbed from trying to keep up. Assignments lay unfinished in her backpack, tests approached with a dull panic she couldn't shake, and her grades reflected the absence she felt in every class. She knew her father wouldn't care—or at least, that was how he acted. When she returned home, the house smelled faintly of his cologne, a reminder of his presence yet also of his distance.
Daniel Blake came home late, shoulders straight, tie slightly loosened, as if he had forgotten the world outside his office. Ariana noticed the empty spaces where her mother's warmth had been—her favorite chair, the scent of lavender, the small picture on the hallway table. Her father walked past, nodding at her briefly without stopping, already buried in his phone. The indifference stung sharper than words.
Ariana dropped her bag with more force than necessary, the sound echoing through the quiet house. She wanted to scream, to demand recognition for her loss, but the words lodged in her throat. Instead, she sank into the sofa, pulling her blanket around her shoulders, and let her thoughts wander back to her mother.
"You're brave, Ari. You always hated goodbyes," she remembered her mother whispering in the hospital room, fingers cold yet gripping hers. Ariana's eyes blurred as she recalled that last faint smile, the softness that no one in the world could replace. She pressed her hands to her face, letting herself feel the grief fully, not the dramatic, loud sorrow, but the quiet, insistent ache that followed her everywhere.
Dinner came and went without conversation. Her father had returned to his office after a brief nod and a mumbled, "Don't wait up," leaving Ariana to eat alone. The house felt enormous, every shadow a reminder that her mother was gone. She picked up a notebook again, jotting down fragments of memory, moments she didn't want to forget: her mother laughing at the rain streaking the windows, the way she braided Ariana's hair, how she smelled of soap and lavender. Writing was the only way to hold her in a world that no longer had her.
Later, as the rain fell harder, Ariana stood by the window, watching droplets race down the glass. She traced patterns on the fogged-up pane, imagining her mother's hand over hers, whispering encouragement that only she could feel. Her father's footsteps echoed from the stairs, yet he passed without a glance, absorbed in work, in some world where grief had no space. Ariana pressed her forehead against the glass, letting the storm outside reflect the one she carried inside.
She thought of school, the unread assignments, the unanswered questions, and the faint disapproval of teachers she barely noticed anymore. The grades that had slipped weren't just letters—they were reminders that life continued, indifferent to her loss. She clenched her pen, letting it rest between her fingers, grounding her in the present. One word, one line, one page at a time, she reminded herself that even in grief, she could still keep moving.