Page 15 of The Sound of Forever
The words feel hollow even as I say them, but I don’t wait for him to call me out on it. “This will be temporary,” I add quickly. “I’ll ask Nydia if she knows of a place we can rent so we don’t impose on you and yournewfamily.”
There’s a scoff on the other end, the sound low and rough. “The house is always ready for whenever you or Oscar need it. I’ll text you the alarm code. If you need furniture for the guest room we never furnished, let me know. Rayne should have her own space, something she can make hers.”
His offer surprises me, the generosity of it catching in my throat. Before I can thank him, he speaks again, quieter this time.
“And, Julianna . . .”
The hesitation in his voice wraps around me, pressing against old scars I thought I’d buried.
“Yeah?” My voice barely rises above a whisper.
“I’m sorry. For everything,” he says, and the crack in his tone feels too real, too raw. “For giving up so easily.”
I want to ask what he means. What exactly he’s sorry for. But I can’t bring myself to go there. Not now.
“Thank you for letting us stay,” I say instead, my words clipped and measured. “Let me know what I owe you for utilities. I wouldn’t want to freeload.”
I hang up before he says anything else and lower the phone, staring at it while I wait for the codes. The house stands in front of me, and somehow the place feels unsettling. Maybe this was a bad idea.
I glance at Rayne, still in the back seat, her little arms folded tightly across her chest. She’s staring out the window, her expression closed off.
I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the cool lake air. This place—this town—it’s not a cure. It’s not magic. But it’s all I have left to help this child with her grief.
Maybe Luna Harbor is the start of something new. Or maybe it’s just another place where I’ll learn how to lose. For now, though, it’s where we are. And that has to be enough.
ChapterTwenty-Two
Julianna
The house smells like a contradiction—newand dusty, alive and forgotten. It’s unnerving, the way it feels both pristine and neglected, as if someone pressed a reset button without bothering to live here afterward. The furniture gleams with unused perfection, the paint on the walls still fresh enough to catch the faint scent of chemicals. And the decorations—they aren’t ours. They’re sterile, calculated, like Gustavo Valencia hired a designer to stage a house nobody plans to call home.
Why go through the trouble?
When I told my father I didn’t want to inconvenience his family, he just scoffed. No explanation, no reassurance, no acknowledgment that the family he left us for might even exist. Maybe they don’t come here anymore. Maybe there isn’t anyone at all.
But isn’t that why he left?
Mom said something once—something vague about him wanting a new start, maybe a new family. I was young, but old enough to piece things together. Old enough to hear the subtext in her voice, to see the cracks in her expression when she thought no one was looking. Maybe he cheated. She never confirmed it, never denied it either. And I never pushed for answers because, at the end of the day, all I really knew was that he wasn’t my father anymore.
It doesn’t matter really. I have to focus on Rayne and the move. Being here is too strange. The space is too quiet, too clean, as if it’s been holding its breath, waiting for someone—anyone—to give it purpose again.
I set the last box down in the living room, brushing my hands on my thighs as I glance around. “Rayne?” I call out, my voice echoing slightly. “Rayne, where are you?”
No answer. Of course.
I’ve said her name more in the past couple of months than I’ve probably said anything else in my life. It’s like throwing words into a void and hoping they’ll stick. She doesn’t respond. She never does.
A chill seeps into my chest, wrapping tightly around my ribs and refusing to let go. The fear claws at me, insidious and unrelenting, whispering of all the ways this could go wrong. What if one day I call her name and she’s not here? What if she runs, disappears into the world, and I can’t find her?
I don’t let myself linger on the thought. My feet are already moving, fast, too loud on the wooden floor as I search the house.
“Rayne!”
The kitchen is empty. The bathroom, the den—nothing. My pulse quickens as I take the stairs two at a time, each step amplifying the panic building in my chest.
When I reach the second floor, I find her.
She’s standing in the doorway of what will be her bedroom, clutching her stuffed rabbit so tightly it looks like she’s trying to keep it from slipping away. Her small frame is motionless, her hair hanging in limp strands around her face. Those big, brown eyes of hers drift blankly over the room, unfocused, unseeing.
