Mara opened the door before the knock had even finished echoing. Her eyes widened as she saw the woman on the doorstep.
Tall, poised, and elegant even in simple clothes, Catherine Myles radiated a presence that made the small city feel impossibly small. British by birth, her voice carried a soft, lilting cadence that immediately softened Mara's heart. Her dark hair was swept into a loose twist, a few strands falling around her face. She had the same high cheekbones, the same graceful posture, the same impossible beauty that had made Elara unforgettable. In fact, Mara thought, she could have been Elara's mirror.
"I… I heard…" Catherine's voice broke as she stepped inside, her hands clutching a small leather bag. She looked around, eyes landing on Mara. "I was told… by the station. About her."
Mara swallowed. "Catherine… come in." Her own hands trembled as she led the woman to the couch.
Catherine sank into it, the quiet weight of her grief pressing the room into silence. Mara sat beside her, keeping a careful distance at first, unsure if she could bear to be so close to someone experiencing such raw sorrow.
"She was so… good," Catherine whispered after a long pause. "Sweet, kind… the kind of girl who lit up every room she walked into. I don't know how to…" She trailed off, her fingers twisting the strap of her bag.
Mara's throat tightened. "I know," she said. "She was… amazing. And she didn't just make people love her because she was beautiful—though she was, in a way that stopped you in your tracks. She made you want to be better. She made me want to be better."
Catherine nodded slowly, eyes glossy. "She had your heart too, didn't she?"
Mara's lips curved into a faint, sad smile. "Yes. She always counted on me. Even when she didn't say it."
Catherine reached out, and Mara hesitated for only a moment before taking her hand. Their grip was tentative at first, then firmer as both of them found comfort in the shared memory of Elara.
"She loved the little things," Catherine said. "The way she'd smile at strangers, or remember a song you mentioned once and hum it a week later… She had a way of making everything brighter."
Mara's eyes brimmed. "She really did. I… we grew up together. From the moment I met her, I felt like I'd found a sister I never had. And she… she was the kind of friend who never let anyone feel alone."
Catherine's hand tightened over hers. "She was my only daughter." Her voice cracked. "And I failed her somehow. I should have been there."
"You didn't fail her," Mara said firmly, tears slipping down her cheeks. "She loved you. She knew. And… she was happy, in her own way. You raised a beautiful, kind soul. And she carried that with her, always."
Catherine bowed her head, letting Mara's words wash over her. For a long while, they sat together in silence, remembering Elara—the laughter, the kindness, the way she made the ordinary feel magical. It was the kind of mourning that didn't require words, only presence, shared sorrow, and understanding.
"She was extraordinary," Catherine whispered finally. "And I want you to know… she thought of you the same way. She always did."
Mara's voice was small, trembling. "I know. And I loved her. I still do. Every day."
Catherine reached over and took Mara's hand again. "Then we'll remember her together. And we'll make sure… her kindness, her light… isn't forgotten."
Outside, the city moved on, oblivious to the grief inside the small house. But within those walls, two women who had loved the same girl found solace in each other, sharing the memories of a daughter, a friend, a girl whose life had been far too short—and whose absence would echo for a long time.
And for the first time that morning, Mara felt a little less alone.