The guest room was quiet but not peaceful.
The soft hum of the ceiling fan was the only sound as I lay on the edge of the bed, staring at the cracked ceiling paint. My mind, however, was a storm of broken memories and sharp regrets—echoes of what I lost and what I could never get back.
I didn't move until the knock came—gentle but persistent. Peter's voice followed.
"Hey. You up?"
I didn't answer at first. My throat felt raw, as if I'd swallowed fire.
A pause. Then, "Anos, it's me. Mind if I come in?"
I forced myself to sit up, muscles stiff from hours of stillness. The door creaked open, and Peter stepped inside, carrying two cups of tea. He handed one to me with a tired smile, the kind that says he's been holding back a thousand things.
I took the cup, the warmth seeping into my cold hands.
"I'm sorry I didn't reach out sooner," he said softly. "I didn't know what to say."
"You never do," I muttered, staring into the dark liquid.
Peter pulled a chair close and sat down. "Maybe I didn't know what to say, but I wanted you to know I'm here. Still."
The words were simple, but they struck deeper than anything I expected. I wanted to believe them. I wanted to believe that I wasn't alone in this hole I'd fallen into.
Just then, the door opened again, and Diana stepped in quietly. Her eyes were kind but heavy with worry. She looked like she'd carried the weight of the world for too long.
"Hey, Anos," she said softly. "I hope you don't mind me joining."
I swallowed hard but nodded.
She sat on the edge of the bed opposite me, her fingers wrapped tightly around a pillow. "Peter tells me you're doing the brave thing by coming here."
I snorted, a hollow sound that startled them both. "Brave? I don't feel brave. I feel broken."
Diana's eyes softened. "Grief does that. It breaks you down so it can rebuild you."
I closed my eyes, tasting the bitterness of those words. Rebuild? It felt like my bones were still scattered on the ground.
Peter leaned forward. "There's no timeline for this, Anos. No right or wrong way to grieve. You're allowed to feel lost."
I swallowed back the lump in my throat. "Sometimes, I don't know if I want to be found."
Diana reached out hesitantly and placed her hand over mine. The contact was electric—fragile and grounding all at once.
"We're not here to fix you," she said gently. "We're here to walk beside you. Even when it's dark."
For the first time in weeks, tears welled in my eyes. They didn't fall, but their presence felt like permission—to feel, to break, to be human.
Peter cleared his throat. "I want to ask you something. About Diamond."
My chest tightened. I wasn't sure I wanted to go there.
"What do you remember about her?" he asked carefully.
I looked up at him, shadows playing across his face in the soft light. "She was... light. Even in the darkest times. She laughed like it was the only thing keeping her alive. She was fierce. Stronger than anyone I've ever known."
Diana nodded. "That's how she lives on—in the memories we keep."
I closed my eyes, picturing her smile, the way she'd scrunch her nose when she was concentrating, how her voice softened when she was scared.
"Sometimes, I hear her," I whispered. "In the quiet. Like she's still here, just out of reach."
Peter's eyes glistened. "That's because she is, in a way."
The room was silent for a moment—each of us wrapped in our own grief.
Diana stood and moved to the window, pulling back the curtain to reveal the night sky. Stars dotted the darkness like scattered hope.
"Grief waits," she said softly. "It's patient. It lingers because love doesn't end."
I watched her, the pain in her eyes mirroring my own.
Peter finally broke the silence. "You don't have to carry it alone anymore, Anos. Let us help."
I looked from Peter to Diana, and something inside me cracked—just a little. Maybe this was the beginning of something I thought I'd lost forever.
I nodded slowly.
"Thank you," I said, voice raw but real.
They smiled—small, hopeful smiles that promised I wasn't forgotten.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to keep going.