The sun poured gently through the window, warming Adaora's face. She stretched, feeling the stiffness of yesterday's first solo walk in her muscles. Her heart was quieter today, still tender, but a small ember of possibility glowed inside her.
She remembered the little girl in the park, the jacaranda blossom, and the warmth it had stirred in her chest. That memory made her smile softly, a fragile curve of lips she hadn't worn in weeks.
Adriella had called that morning to check in. "How are you feeling?" she asked.
"I'm… okay," Adaora replied, hesitant but truthful. "Better than yesterday, at least."
"You're stronger than you know," Adriella said, her voice steady. "Don't forget that."
Adaora hung up, feeling lighter. She decided to step out again, this time to a small café nearby, a place she used to love before the grief had frozen her world. She dressed simply, wore a scarf loosely over her hair, and walked out into the warm, bustling city.
The café was quiet that mid-morning, the scent of fresh coffee and baked pastries filling the air. She chose a table by the window, the light spilling across her notebook. She pulled it out, writing in careful, deliberate strokes:
"Yesterday, the world gave me a flower. Today, I'll notice another. Healing is tiny gestures, tiny moments. Not loud, not obvious, but real."
For a while, she just watched — people laughing over coffee, the barista humming softly as he worked, a dog tail-wagging as its owner returned. The world was alive, and she was a part of it again, even if just for a moment.
But life, as always, had its tests.
The café door opened, and Adaora froze. She didn't recognize the woman immediately, but the sharpness in her tone made her heart skip.
"Adaora?"
Her aunt's voice, the same one that had scolded her for crying too loudly, for staying in her room too long, for living "in the past." The words had always been heavy, but now they carried the weight of expectation — the expectation to "move on."
Adaora's chest tightened. She forced a polite smile. "Hello, Aunt savie."
The woman's eyes flickered over her, judgment clear. "I didn't expect to see you out like this. I thought maybe you'd stay home, mourning quietly as everyone expects."
Adaora's stomach knotted. The fragile hope she had been holding, that soft ember of courage, flickered under the weight of these words. "I… I'm trying," she said softly, but firmly.
"Trying?" her aunt snapped. "You've been trying for months. You can't keep living in this shadow. You need to move on. Life doesn't wait for you to grieve forever."
The words hit like a blow. Adaora felt tears prick her eyes, but she swallowed them back. She had faced grief alone, walked through darkness, and survived. She wouldn't let anyone make her feel ashamed for that.
"Moving on doesn't mean forgetting him," she said, voice steady despite the trembling inside. "It doesn't mean pretending I'm okay. It means learning to carry him differently, as I have been. It's my grief, and my process. Not yours to dictate."
Aunt savie mouth opened, closed, and opened again, as if searching for words to dismiss her, but Adaora held her gaze. She felt the warmth of her small victories — the park, the flower, the morning light — anchoring her in courage.
Finally, her aunt huffed and turned away, muttering something under her breath about "stubborn children" and "wasted time." Adaora let herself exhale slowly.
She sank back into her chair, tears threatening but held at bay. The confrontation had shaken her, yes, but it hadn't broken her. She had stood up, defended her healing, and claimed her right to grieve on her own terms.
And that mattered.
Adaora picked up her pen again, writing a single line in her notebook:
"Some voices will try to pull me back into darkness. But I am learning to walk in the light anyway, even if my steps are shaky."
She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. Outside, the city moved on — noisy, alive, unrelenting. And she moved with it, slowly, cautiously, but with a flicker of strength growing inside her.
She had walked into the café as a woman fragile and hesitant. She left as someone beginning to claim herself again, no matter what anyone else said.