The stone is cool. Solid. Real in a way nothing else about loss ever is.
“I still wake up reaching for her,” I whisper. “My body still thinks she’s there. It feels wrong… empty and heavy at the same time. Like something sacred was taken but forgot to tell my bones.”
Carrie’s arm comes around me instantly.
“She looked like she was sleeping,” I say, tears spilling freely now. “Just resting. Like if I waited long enough, she’d stretch and fuss and remind me she was still mine.”
My breath stutters.
“I miss the weight of her. The way she lived under my ribs. The quiet company of her.”
“I know,” Carrie says, forehead pressed to mine. “I know.”
We stay there until the garden exhales around us.
The gate creaks open.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough to announce that something private is about to become shared.
Healthcare professionals arrive first. Midwives. Counsellors. Palliative care nurses. Social workers. People who already know grief intimately, who understand what this place will beused for. They move through the house slowly, attentively. Not assessing. Receiving.
I watch shoulders drop. Eyes soften.
That’s when I know the house is doing its job.
Bread drifts from the kitchen. Peach tea threads sweetness through the air. The rooms don’t echo anymore. They hold sound instead of throwing it back.
Elma kneels to speak quietly with a midwife. Peter stands near the doorway, steady as a lighthouse. He meets my eyes once and nods. Not proud. Not sentimental. Just present.
Anita arrives mid-morning, wheeled gently through the door. Her hands flutter with excitement, eyes bright as she takes in the artwork lining the halls. She can’t speak, but she doesn’t need to. Her joy is unmistakable. She reaches for me, fingers brushing my wrist, then presses her palm flat against the wall, feeling the space.
I crouch beside her.
She taps her chest once. Then points at the art. Then at me.
I smile, tears burning. “Yes,” I whisper. “You helped make it.”
She hums softly, eyes shining, and squeezes my fingers hard.
The first family steps inside slowly, like they’re afraid the floor might give way beneath them. Their eyes move everywhere at once. The walls. The windows. The light. The softness.
Their baby is already sleeping inside the womb. An absolute heartbreak knowing you have to give birth soon to your beautiful sleeping baby.
I watch their shoulders drop a fraction.
That’s when I know the house is doing its job.
Someone has brewed peach tea again, the sweetness threading through the air like a promise. The builders did good work. The rooms don’t echo anymore. They hold sound instead of throwing it back.
Elma moves through the space like she’s always belonged here. Quiet voice. Gentle hands. She kneels to greet a mother at eye level, doesn’t rush her tears, doesn’t fill the silence with anything unnecessary.
Peter stands near the doorway, steady as a lighthouse. He meets my eyes once and nods. Not proud. Not sentimental. Just present.
You’re doing it, that nod says. Keep going.
I drift from room to room, not hosting so much as witnessing. A father tracing the grain of a wooden table absentmindedly. A mother pressing her palm flat against the wall, breathing like she’s memorising the texture. Someone crying softly in the garden, hidden among lavender and rosemary.
Everywhere I look, Gracie is there.
