Not as absence.
As intention.
Anita’s art glows in the afternoon light. Gold leaf catches on white walls, turning grief into something almost luminous. A woman stops in front of one piece and presses her fingers to her mouth, eyes wide.
“It’s…beautiful,” she whispers. “It doesn’t hurt to look at.”
Anita beams from her wheelchair, hands clasped tight in her lap, joy vibrating through her. She looks at me and makes a happy sound, a little hum she does when she’s overwhelmed in the best way.
I crouch beside her and take her hand.
“You did this,” I tell her. “You gave them somewhere soft to land.”
She squeezes my fingers hard and grins, eyes shining. I think about how many people the world overlooks. How much beauty waits quietly for someone to notice.
I think about mirrors again.
The kitchen fills slowly. Cups clink. Kettles sigh. Someone laughs, surprised by it. The sound startles us all for half a second before settling into something warm.
Dane stays close but never crowds me. He refills mugs. Carries boxes. Kneels to adjust a rug corner that’s curling up. He looks completely at home here, like this place understands him too.
When Blake arrives, I feel it before I see him.
That old, familiar tightening. A ghost memory of holding my breath.
He doesn’t come straight to me. He stands back with his mother, both of them quiet, respectful. His eyes move over the space slowly, taking it in. I can see the moment it clicks for him. The why of it.
Our eyes meet briefly.
No anger. No longing. Just acknowledgement.
Later, when the light has shifted and the crowd has thinned just enough to breathe, he approaches me carefully.
“This is…extraordinary,” he says. His voice is low. Honest. “You did something beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I reply. It doesn’t hurt to say it anymore.
We hug. Brief. Fragile. Real.
His mother touches my arm gently. “She would have loved this,” she says.
“I hope so,” I whisper.Blake carefully holds something out to me.
A letter.
“For later,” he says. “If you want.”
I nod and tuck it into my pocket.
While he and his mother walk to Gracie’s grave, I step into the quiet of the hallway and unfold the paper.
His words are unpolished. Honest. Full of regret without expectation. He writes about not understanding. About fear. About how wrong he was to try and move her. About seeing now that love doesn’t leave just because bodies do.
You stayed;he writes.You built what I couldn’t.I read it once. Twice. The paper feels fragile under my fingers, and the words burn softly, the echo of what was once unbearable now tempered by time.
I still don’t forgive myself. I don’t think I’m meant to. The sanctuary is beautiful.
I hope you’re well, Penn. I hope you’re loved the way you needed to be.
