Page 16 of The Sound of Forever
She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t even flinch as I step closer.
“What do you think?” I ask, forcing my voice to sound light, playful. It feels wrong, like I’m playing a role I don’t believe in. “This will be your room. We can paint it any color you want. Pink? Green? I like purple. Any color you choose. What do you think?”
Nothing. Not even a flicker.
I swallow against the lump rising in my throat, kneeling down so I’m at her level. My knees press into the floor, grounding me as I search her face for something—anything.
“Hey, Ray,” I say softly. “You’re going to love it here. There’s a big lake out back, and we can explore once we’re all settled. Maybe we’ll even find some ducks. You like ducks, don’t you?”
Her fingers tighten around the rabbit’s ear, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. It’s the only sign she’s even heard me.
I reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, my touch as gentle as I can make it. But the second my fingers graze her skin, she flinches—just a small jerk of her head, but it knocks the air right out of me.
I pull my hand back like I’ve been burned, letting it fall uselessly to my side. My chest constricts, and for a moment, I can’t move, can’t think, can’t do anything but watch her as she drifts further into a place I can’t reach.
Come on, Julianna, do something. Anything. Say whatever comes to mind.
“Okay,” I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper. “Okay. We’ll figure it out.”
The words feel hollow, but I say them anyway. Because if I don’t, who will?
“Okay,” I say again, straightening up and brushing the dust off my knees. “You can take your time. Tonight you’re sleeping in my old room. The lady my father recommended should be here tomorrow with some furniture I chose from a catalog. For now, I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”
She doesn’t respond, doesn’t even glance my way, and I force myself to step back, my feet dragging as if my body is rebelling against the distance I’m creating. Her sadness feels like it’s seeping into my skin, suffocating and relentless. Give her time, the therapist said when she first moved in with me. But how much time? Weeks? Months? Years?
I know she’s grieving. I know she’s doing it in her own quiet, isolated way, just like I am. But that knowledge doesn’t make it easier. It doesn’t help when every interaction feels like throwing words into a void and waiting for an echo that never comes. It doesn’t stop the doubt from creeping in, telling me I’m failing her in every way that matters.
I head to the kitchen, needing a distraction. The space is small but immaculate, every surface spotless, every appliance sleek and modern. It feels out of place here, almost too polished, like it’s waiting for someone to bring it to life. Maybe we can bond here, over something simple like cooking or baking. It’s a long shot, but I’ll cling to any flicker of hope I can find.
The faint creak of the floorboards behind me pulls me from my thoughts. I turn, startled, to see Rayne standing at the edge of the kitchen, her stuffed rabbit pressed tightly to her chest like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded. She looks so small compared to everything around us.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my tone gentle, careful. “You want something to drink? Juice? Water?”
She doesn’t answer, but her gaze shifts briefly to the glass in my hand. It’s a small movement, barely there, but it’s something, and I hold onto it like it’s all I have.
I pour her a glass of water and set it on the table, stepping back to give her room. “There you go,” I say. “It’s clean. I checked.”
For a moment, she just stands there, staring at the table. Then, slowly, she shuffles forward. Her steps are hesitant, deliberate, as if she’s testing each one before committing to the next. She sets the rabbit on the chair beside her and climbs up, her small fingers trembling as she reaches for the glass.
She doesn’t look at me, but she drinks. And right now this feels like a win.
“We’re going to make this place really nice,” I say, leaning back against the counter, hoping I have her attention. “I’ll unpack your things as soon as we have your furniture. We’ll set up your new room with bunnies. Maybe we can put some glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, like the ones my dad put in my room when I was your age. Would you like that?”
She shrugs, the movement subtle, almost imperceptible. But it’s the closest thing to a positive response I’ve gotten all day, and I hold onto it like it means something.
I watch her drink, the silence between us stretching long and fragile, like a thread threatening to break. It’s not comfortable. It never is. But I’ve grown used to it—this constant unease, this gnawing feeling that I’m not doing enough.
“You know, your mom used to love when we visited this place,” I say, my voice quieter now, like I’m speaking to the room instead of her. “We used to play on a swing set outside. Maybe I can have one installed for you. What do you think?”
She finishes her water and slides off the chair, picking up her rabbit without a word. Her small figure slips out of the kitchen, disappearing down the hallway like a shadow fading into the night.
I close my eyes and let out a shaky breath, my hands gripping the edge of the counter until the cool surface presses into my palms. “I’m trying, Elena,” I whisper, the words breaking apart as they leave my mouth. “I’m fucking trying, but she’s just as stubborn as you were.”
The lake catches my eye through the window, its surface shifting as the wind picks up, rippling with an energy that feels both alive and distant. I force myself to move, to focus on the now. Moving forward. There are boxes to unpack, rooms to organize, a life to . . . what are we doing? Creating a new family from what Elena left, right?
Can I even do it?
I open the first box in the living room, pulling out picture frames and books, each one a fragment of a life that feels like it belongs to someone else. An ache builds deep inside me, a relentless voice whispering that I’m not enough. That I’ll never be enough.
