Chapter 2: Lingering Thoughts
Elijah left the café that morning with a strange ache he couldn't name. Maya had only said a few words to him—polite, kind, but distant. Still, something about her presence had rooted itself deep in his mind. The sound of her voice as she read quietly, the curve of her brow when she concentrated on her book, the gentle way she brushed her hair behind her ear—it all clung to him like a song he couldn't forget.
He walked back to his car, coffee in hand, pausing at the door. He turned once, hoping for one last glance. But the window where she had been sitting was now hidden behind the reflection of passing clouds.
Back at his office, Elijah tried to focus on his schedule—meetings, business calls, decisions that required attention. But between moments, his thoughts wandered back to the café. Would she be there again? Was she just passing through or was she a regular?
The next morning, he returned. Not for the coffee. Not even for the peace the place offered. But for the chance—just the chance—that she might be there again.
But she wasn't.
He returned the next day. And the next. Each time, scanning the room the moment he stepped in.
No Maya.
And yet, Elijah kept coming back, day after day, like a man hoping the tide would return something the sea had quietly taken.
Elijah hadn't been back to the house in weeks. Not because he didn't want to—but because walking through that door always carried the weight of silence. The kind of silence that used to be filled with his father's voice, his laughter, the firm but gentle presence that made everything steady.
Now, it was just his mother, Miriam, and his younger sister, Eliana. They were his everything.
He knocked anyway, out of habit, and Eliana pulled the door open, her arms flying around his neck.
"About time," she murmured against his shoulder, her voice catching slightly.
"I missed you too, Elle," Elijah said, holding her tighter than he meant to.
Inside, their mother sat at the kitchen table, a steaming mug of tea in front of her, fingers gently wrapped around it as if drawing warmth from it.
"Elijah," she said softly, looking up. Her smile was tender but tired, the kind of smile that carried years of love and recent grief.
He crossed the room and bent to kiss her forehead. "Hey, Mama."
She placed her hand on his cheek and held it there for a second longer than usual. "You look more like him every day," she said, her voice breaking just a little.
Elijah sat beside her, his voice low. "I try to be like him, Mama. But sometimes I don't know if I'm doing it right."
"You are," she said immediately, no hesitation. "Your father would be proud of you. He was proud of you, Elijah. Every single day."
Eliana joined them, sitting across the table. "It's not the same without him," she whispered. "The house feels... different."
Elijah nodded. "I know. I feel it too. But I keep hearing his voice when I make decisions. Like he's still here, guiding me."
Their mother blinked back tears. "He is still here. In you. In the way you carry yourself. In the way you care."
They sat in silence for a while, the kind that didn't need to be filled. Then Miriam reached out and took both her children's hands in hers.
"I may not have your father anymore," she said softly, "but I have the two of you. And that means I still have the world."
Elijah gave a small, aching smile. "I'm not going anywhere, Mama. Not ever"
The warmth of his mother's kitchen faded into a heaviness as time passed. The teacups had gone cold, and silence wrapped around the three of them like a thick wool blanket. Elijah knew what was coming before anyone spoke. He could feel it in the way Eliana kept fidgeting with the sleeve of her hoodie, and the way his mother kept her eyes downcast, like bracing for pain.
"Elijah," Eliana finally said, her voice quieter than before. "The memorial. It's in two weeks."
He stilled.
His mother's hand twitched around her mug. She didn't speak.
Elijah swallowed. "Right."
"It's been a year," Eliana added. "Feels like yesterday, doesn't it?"
"I know," he said, but his voice came out hollow.
His mother finally looked up at him, her eyes glassy but firm. "I don't want it to be a big thing. Just family. Some words. Maybe… maybe that song he loved."
Elijah nodded slowly, but something in him tightened. "I'll handle it."
"Elijah…" Eliana leaned forward. "You don't have to carry it all."
"I'm not," he said too quickly. "I just want it done right."
The room fell into stillness again. Even the ticking clock on the wall seemed to pause.
His mother looked at him then, really looked, like she could see the storm beneath his calm. "You haven't let yourself grieve, son. Not really."
"I have my way," Elijah said, but the words felt brittle.
Eliana's eyes shimmered. "I just miss him so much. Sometimes I still wait for his knock at the door."
Elijah's throat closed. He stood up suddenly, the chair legs scraping against the floor. "I need some air."
Neither of them stopped him as he stepped out into the night, the cool breeze doing little to ease the ache in his chest
The screen door creaked as Elijah stepped onto the porch, letting it shut behind him with a gentle thud. The cool evening air wrapped around him, biting but not harsh, brushing against the tension in his shoulders like a quiet hand that couldn't quite soothe him.
He walked to the edge of the porch and leaned against the railing, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular. The street was calm. A few porch lights flickered on down the block, and the distant hum of a passing car reminded him that the world outside his grief was still turning.
But inside him, everything had paused.
The words his sister had spoken echoed through his mind—"It's been a year."
His mother's silence had said even more. It was heavy, the kind of silence that carried sorrow too deep for words. And Elijah didn't know what to do with all that grief. His own. Theirs. The weight of it pressed down on him like rain on a roof already buckling under the storm.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small keychain—old, worn, the leather cracking. It had once belonged to his father. Thomas Grant. Strong. Steady. A man whose voice could fill a room without ever raising in volume. A man who had never let Elijah walk away from a hard moment without facing it.
But he wasn't here now. And Elijah felt like a boy again—lost, grasping, pretending to be a man while the pieces inside him rattled loose.
He closed his eyes.
His father's laughter—deep and full—rushed to the surface. So did his advice, his favorite sayings, even the quiet way he used to pat Elijah's shoulder when words weren't enough. Elijah had once thought there'd be more time. Time to show him the man he became. Time to repay the belief his father had always had in him.
But there had been no warning. No last hug. No final words. Just a call in the night. A sharp tear in the fabric of everything that made sense.
Elijah opened his eyes again, staring at the shadows cast by the porch light. The trees swayed gently. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked once, then fell quiet.
He rubbed his face, exhaling slowly. He didn't want to go back inside. Not yet. He wasn't ready to look into his mother's eyes again and see the pain she tried so hard to hide. Or see Eliana's vulnerability, wrapped in a strength that was just a little too forced.
They were strong women. But they were grieving too. And Elijah couldn't carry his own sorrow, let alone theirs. Not tonight.
He sat down on the porch steps, elbows resting on his knees. For a long while, he just stared at his hands. They were his father's hands. Broad, steady, scarred in the same places.
"I'm trying, Dad," he whispered. "But it's hard."
And there, in the quiet of that porch, Elijah finally allowed a single tear fall
after hours of staying outside he went inside to close his tired eyes even still the heaviness in his heart remained .