Page 29 of Stolen Harmony
Her stone was exactly as I'd left it three weeks ago. Simple white marble, nothing fancy or elaborate, just her name and the dates that bookended a life that had ended too soon. Elaine Grant, beloved wife and mother. The words felt inadequate, like trying to sum up the ocean with a single drop of water.
I knelt beside the grave, the damp earth soaking through my jeans immediately. Max settled beside me without needing a command, laying his head on his paws with the patient resignation of a dog who'd done this before.
The white lilies I'd brought were already starting to wilt in the cold air, but they still smelled sweet, a sharp contrast to the damp earth and decomposing leaves. I set them at the base of the headstone, my fingers brushing the carved letters of her name.
“Hey,” I said quietly, the word barely loud enough to carry over the wind. “Sorry it's been a while. Work's been...”
I trailed off, because work hadn't been anything. I'd been going through the motions, showing up at the office and editing tracks without really hearing them, collecting paychecks I barely remembered to cash. Functioning, but not living. Surviving, but not thriving.
“The roses are coming in early this year,” I tried again, my voice sounding strange in the open air. “That yellow bush youplanted by the kitchen window. It's got buds already, even though it's barely April. You always said they knew when spring was really coming, even when the weather couldn't make up its mind.”
The words felt hollow, like small talk with a stranger instead of the woman I'd loved more than breathing. But talking about ordinary things was easier than addressing the elephant sitting on my chest, crushing my ribs with its weight.
Max shifted beside me, resting his head against my arm. The warmth was grounding, a reminder that I was still here, still breathing, still capable of feeling something other than the numbing gray that had become my default setting.
“He's back,” I said finally, the words coming out in a rush. “Rowan. He came home.”
The admission hung in the cold air, unanswered except for the distant sound of waves against rocks. I pressed my forehead against the cool stone, the contact both grounding and unbearable.
“I fucked it up,” I whispered, the profanity feeling wrong in this place but too true to take back. “The first real conversation we had, and I fucked it up completely. He's angry, and he's hurting, and I don't know how to help him without making it worse.”
The stone was solid against my skin, real in a way that nothing else felt anymore. Cold and permanent and marked with her name, proof that she'd existed, that our love had been real even if it was over.
“I don't know what to do with him,” I admitted, the words scraping against my throat. “He's not the boy you talked about. And I'm not the man you knew. We're both just... broken. And I'm afraid that trying to fix him will break us both.”
A tear rolled down my cheek before I could stop it, hot against the cold air. I wiped it away angrily, frustrated withmyself for crying over a situation I'd helped create. She was gone. Crying wasn't going to bring her back or fix the mess she'd left behind.
But the tears kept coming anyway, quiet and unstoppable as rain. For the woman I'd lost, for the stepson I'd never really known, for the family we might have been if we'd had more time. For all the conversations that would never happen and all the bridges that might be too burned to rebuild.
Max whined softly and pressed closer. I wrapped my arm around him and held on, letting his steady breathing remind me how to do the same.
The cemetery was empty except for us, the other mourners having finished their business and returned to the world of the living. Soon the gates would close and the groundskeeper would make his final rounds, checking that all the flowers were properly arranged and all the visitors had gone home.
But not yet. For now, I could sit here with my dog and my dead wife and pretend that love was enough to bridge the gap between the living and the gone.
The wind picked up, rustling the new leaves on the oak tree that shaded this section of the cemetery. It was the kind of sound that could be anything if you listened right. Whispers, or approval, or just the world breathing in and out the way it always had.
I told her about the house, about the bills I kept forgetting to pay not because I couldn't afford them but because opening the mail felt like admitting that life was continuing without her. About the way I'd been sleepwalking through the past two years, going through the motions of being alive without any of the substance that made it worthwhile.
“I'm tired,” I said finally, the words heavy with more than just physical exhaustion. “I'm so fucking tired of pretendingthat any of this makes sense. That I know what I'm doing. That I'm strong enough to keep going without you.”
The silence stretched between us, filled only by the distant crash of waves and Max's steady breathing beside me.
“I wake up every morning and for about three seconds, I forget,” I continued, my voice cracking. “I reach for your side of the bed, or I make two cups of coffee out of habit, and then it hits me all over again. You're gone. You're really gone, and I'm still here, and I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to do with that.”
My fingers traced her name again, the letters worn smooth by weather and countless other touches.
“He hates me,” I whispered. “Your son hates me, and I can't blame him because I kept you from him just as much as you kept him from me. We were all so scared of getting hurt that we hurt each other instead.”
A tear dropped onto the marble, dark against the white stone.
“I would have loved him, you know. If you'd let me meet him properly, if we'd had time... I would have tried to be what he needed. But now he looks at me and sees a stranger who stole his mother's last years, and maybe he's right.”
The wind picked up, carrying the salt smell of the ocean and something that might have been her perfume if I let myself believe in ghosts.
“Tell me what to do,” I begged, my voice breaking completely. “Tell me how to fix this. Tell me how to live without you when you were the only thing that made living make sense.”
The sun was setting behind the oak tree, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange that would have taken her breath away, if she were still here to see it. For a moment, the world held its breath, and I let myself believe she was listening.
