Page 24 of The Sound of Forever
She nods, her gaze locked on the lake, the tension in her grip the only sign she’s heard me.
“You should probably go before your mom gets upset,” I say, though the raised voice coming from the other house it obvious her mother is fucking pissed.
“She’s not my mom,” the girl says, her voice flat, distant. “She’s no one.”
Her words settle between us, raw and unguarded, and for a moment, I can’t speak. She shifts slightly, her small shoulders rising and falling as if shaking off an invisible weight.
“You should still go. Ms. No One sounds worried,” I murmur, though it feels pointless, as if I’m speaking more for myself than for her.
She stands, slow and deliberate, cradling Fufu Flops close to her chest. Against the backdrop of the lake, her frame looks impossibly small, her steps quiet as she moves with care.
“Bye,” she says, her voice soft, a thread of sound that carries across the water.
“Bye,” I reply, my own voice faltering as I watch her start up the path.
I sit there long after she disappears into the trees, her absence amplifying the quiet around me. The dock feels different now, lonelier somehow, as I sit cross-legged, staring at the lake. Its surface ripples faintly in the moonlight, the movements subtle but constant, as if the water itself is alive with secrets.
Her words replay in my mind, sticking like burrs.She’s not my mom. She’s no one.
What kind of life leads a child to say that with such finality? The thought churns inside me, an ache I can’t ignore. It feels like I’ve brushed against something far deeper than I’m equipped to handle.
I drag a hand down my face, exhaling slowly, trying to ground myself in the quiet of the day. But my mind keeps drifting back to her small figure, the way her voice sounded almost resigned, and the way she clutched that rabbit like it was the only thing tethering her to this world.
I can’t shake the sense that this moment mattered, that it wasn’t just another passing encounter. Whatever it was sits uneasily in my gut.
ChapterTwenty-Nine
Julianna
The faint scentof pine and flowers is becoming familiar, weaving itself into my mornings and quietly reminding me that this is home now. It greets me each day, carried by the early breeze filtering through the windows. The house is quiet. I steal these moments while she sleeps. This is the time to find my footing before the day demands more than I’m ready to give.
I grab my yoga mat and pad barefoot into the backyard, the cool grass damp with dew beneath my feet. The air is crisp, clean, and the world feels untouched in these early hours. I roll out my yoga mat on a patch of grass, the motion fluid, practiced, but purposeful.
The sky is painted in soft streaks of orange and pink, the sun still hesitating below the horizon. Sun salutation is my favorite time of day. Unless my body is asking for something different. What’s important to me is taking the morning to myself, this fragile in-between, when everything feels quieter, gentler.
I lower myself into a seated pose, closing my eyes and resting my hands lightly on my knees. My breaths come slow, deliberate, the rise and fall of my chest syncing with the faint rustle of leaves and the distant call of a bird. Inhale, hold, exhale. The rhythm pulls me away from the noise pressing at the edges of my thoughts, offering some sense of quiet.
But it doesn’t last.
Images creep in, unwelcome and vivid. My father. Elena. Rayne. Always Rayne. Her defiance. Her indifference. Yesterday, I spent ten agonizing minutes searching the house for her, my pulse racing with every worst-case scenario. Wondering if she’d gone out to the lake, if she was in the water, if she’d gone under and wouldn’t come back up. And then she walked in—calm, detached—like my panic was meaningless. Like none of it mattered.
My hands curl on my knees, tension radiating through me. How am I supposed to protect her when she acts like she doesn’t need protecting at all?
“Breathe, Julianna,” I remind myself. “Today is yours. Whatever it brings, you are enough and you can deal with it.”
After several breaths, I change to a standing position. Inhaling deeply and letting the crisp morning air fill my lungs. My arms rise slowly as I exhale, folding into the first stretch of the day. This is my space, my time to process everything—the grief, the guilt, the overwhelming sense of responsibility that comes with trying to be enough for Rayne.
I move through the poses with practiced ease, my muscles loosening with each stretch. A soft flow that feels more meditative than physical. The world around me fades as I focus on my breathing, the rhythm of my body grounding me in a way little else has been able to lately.
The sound of footsteps on gravel pulls me out of my trance. They’re faint at first, then louder, steady in a way that’s almost rhythmic. I pause mid-pose, my arms extended as I glance toward the path that runs along the back of the property. A figure comes into view, jogging at an easy pace. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with a lean, muscular build that speaks of someone used to pushing his body to its limits. His hazelnut-brown hair catches the early sunlight, and there’s something both striking and familiar about him.
Right. It’s him—the man who looked like he was ready to bolt during class a few days ago. What was his name? K . . . Keane, right. He hasn’t come back, and I can’t say I’m surprised. The first time I searched for help, it wasn’t just hard—it was brutal. Not for my body, but for my mind.
Letting go of pain isn’t some neat, graceful process. It’s messy, like peeling back layers of yourself you didn’t even know were there, only to find untreated wounds and scars you’ve been pretending don’t exist. It’s raw and exposing, and every step feels like you’re being asked to bleed for the chance to heal.
But he was there. For at least a moment, he wanted to try. And I wonder—what is it that keeps him away? The fear of breaking open, or the fear that no one will be there to catch the pieces?
“Good morning, Keane,” I greet him.
