Page 51 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
Branches and leaves crunch beneath my feet as I step into the room, moving away from the staircase.
“A very old home,” I answer. “Before the Arcanian War there were villages on this land. This is the last cottage standing.” Pausing, I gently touch the stained glass. “I come on this dayevery year.” I run my fingers along the rough edges of the window. “I used to come with Ma.”
I wasn’t allowed to return home to Eunaris on Ma’s birthday, so she would visit me for the afternoon.
We loved this room.
Today is the first in years that there was a possibility of not being alone here. It was selfishness that led me to drag Azaire along.
I stare out the window, past the trees and into the woods. Sometimes, if I squint just right, it blurs into something familiar—my hometown. A place I once considered the safest in the worlds. I can almost see Ma and me, gathering wildflowers in the fields. She used to cover one eye with a violet and smile at me, an image so vivid it felt straight out of a painting.
Ma was beautiful. Full cheeks with freckles and elegant emerald eyes. People used to tell me I was her spitting image. I hope I am.
I don’t realize I’m touching the scar along my chin until Azaire says, “I’m sorry.”
My hand falls away as I look back at him. “You aren’t supposed to say that.”
We don’t sayI’m sorryat the academy. It’s improper. We saymy apologies, and we don’t mean it, either.
Azaire chuckles softly. “I’m the farthest thing from elite here.”
“Yeah?” I smile. “Maybe that’s why I like you.”
“You…” Azaire steps forward, lips twisting into a grin. “Likeme?” His voice lilts with teasing curiosity.
I shove an arm into his shoulder, laughing, then bite my lip to hold it in. “Don’t get all smug on me now.”
“My apologies.” He smiles. “I just like hearing it.”
Turning from him, I move toward the gap in the wall where the balcony used to be. I sit on the ledge, legs dangling, the ground far beneath my feet.
Azaire’s soft voice fills the room. “Thank you.”
He feels like love and gratitude. I don’t understand why, but I like it. The sun is in my chest, feeding the flowers.
“For what?” I ask, staring at my legs kicking in the air.
Azaire sits beside me, his hands resting on the floor, a breath from mine.
“For showing me.”
“It’s not a big deal.” I shake my head.
“It is,” he says, with so much sympathy that I long to pull away. Hide my face, because I don’t deserve it.
I am the reason I sit here alone every year.
“You don’t have to keep people out,” Azaire whispers. “I did it for a long time, too, until I finally realized that this life is meant to be enjoyed, no matter how many of those moments are fleeting.”
He says it, but he does not mean it. Not all of it. Behind his words, there is a twinge of guilt.Thatis the feeling I can’t help but cling to, because it is the very thing I fear.
My gaze drifts beyond the treetops into a blue oblivion. My voice stays soft. “You don’t understand the circumstances.”
There’s a lapse of silence as Azaire contemplates. I fall into his feeling, using it as a crutch, a way to carry my own.
“I lost my parents, too,” he says.
My head shoots up, but Azaire is looking down. I look down, too, seeing my dead mother on the ground. I rub my eyes, wondering what Azaire sees.
