Page 11 of Emylia

Swallowed by the noise of my grief.

There were a thousand things I didn’t understand about this world, but one truth screamed louder than the rest: If we went to the Festival of the Goddess Elessandria without my father, it would make his death real.

Absolute.

It had only been three weeks, and already his absence was a gaping, open wound.

I didn’t have the stomach to answer my mother, or even acknowledge her words. I couldn’t trust my voice not to betray me. Instead, I closed my eyes and continued tracing tiny circles on the ruby embedded in my bracelet, grounding myself against the storm inside my chest.

It was the last true link I had to my father—something tangible, something unbroken. Something that made me feel, if only for a heartbeat, that he was still with me.

Footsteps echoed across the wooden floor. I ignored every single one of them, even when they stopped in front of me.

Without a word, my mother wrapped her arms around me, cradling me against her chest. For a moment—a rare, stolen moment—the pain eased.

Her fingers combed through my hair, just as she had when I was a child, when scraped knees and bad dreams were the worst things in the world.

"No matter what we do, he isn’t coming back." Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, but the words still struck like a final blow. "We have to learn how to live without him, no matter how impossible it feels."

I had no words.

Not a single one.

I knew she was right, but Gods, I didn’t want her to be.

I wanted him back.

"There is still beauty in this world," she said, her voice gentling, a fragile smile softening her face. "Don’t shut your eyes before you’ve had a chance to see it."

A beat of silence passed between us, heavier than anything spoken.

"He would want you to be happy."

Happiness.

The word barely registered.

It felt like something belonging to another lifetime, another world. Right now, even surviving his death felt like too much to ask.

My mother pulled me closer, her warmth easing the sharpest edges of the trepidation that shadowed my soul.

"Come on," she whispered. "Let’s get ready before we miss the entire festival."

I didn’t fight her.

Didn’t argue.

I let her guide me toward the bathroom—toward the vanilla. Then, without another word, she slipped into her room, leaving me alone with a grief so loud, it had gone quiet. The kind of pain that stops screaming… and just sits with you.

Heart lined with lead, I stood motionless. The taste of bile clawed up my throat. Blinking hard, I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and leaned over the tub, watching the steam curl toward the ceiling.

Warm, salty tears spilled down my cheeks, dripping from my chin into the water below. Each drop made a tiny, almost soundless splash in the clear, steaming bath.

It had been an eternity since I last allowed myself to cry. Normally, I held myself together. Not because it was easy, but because I had to.

Gods, my father had raised me stronger than this.

Better than this.

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