Page 6 of The Sound of Forever
His voice fades into the background as the room seems to shrink around me. My throat tightens, a rush of emotions clawing their way to the surface—grief, anger, guilt, and something harder to name. Memories of Elena flash like snapshots: her laugh, her sharp wit, the countless arguments that pushed us further apart.
Simone steps closer, concern etched into her features, but I can’t meet her gaze. “I . . . I’ll need some time,” I say into the phone, the words coming out brittle and uneven. “She’s dying?”
How? When did she become a mom, and why didn’t she tell me? I mean obviously it was six years ago, but still. This . . . I can’t process any of this.
“I understand you need time to recoup,” Richard replies. “I’ll follow up shortly because your niece has to be with you. And maybe you can still see your sister before she passes.”
The line goes dead, and I lower the phone, my hand trembling. The studio feels too bright, too open, as if the walls are pressing in.
Simone places a hand on my arm, her voice soft. “Jules? Are you okay?”
I shake my head, the first tear slipping free before I can stop it. “No. I’m not okay.”
And I’m not sure I ever will be.
ChapterThirteen
Julianna
Leavingthe practice early isn’t something I usually do, but today, it’s necessary. There’s too much happening in my head, too much weighing on my heart, to be present in my classes. How can I help others heal when I feel like I’m unraveling? Sure, my sister and I became estranged eight years ago after Mom died, but that doesn’t mean I’m okay losing her like this.
What happened? I should’ve asked the lawyer, but I didn’t. The words sat on the tip of my tongue, too raw to push out. And why call me at the studio? There’s my house number. Maybe Simone is right—I should get a cell phone again.
The faint hum of Seattle surrounds me, the city’s rhythm familiar but distant, like a soundtrack I’ve learned to tune out. I focus instead on the cadence of my steps as I make my way to my apartment. The walk isn’t far—just a few blocks of tree-lined streets, trendy coffee shops, and boutique stores displaying hand-lettered signs in their windows.
Freelancers and artists linger over overpriced lattes, hunched over laptops or sketchbooks. That used to be me, staying up late in a coffee shop, chasing a dream. Just one more project, one more hour, one more shot at proving myself. A bigger bonus. A promotion. Recognition.
It was never enough.
I push the thought away as I reach my building. My hand trembles slightly as I unlock the door, the faint clink of keys filling the silence. The weight of grief and guilt presses against my ribs, stealing my breath.
Mom.
Elena.
Dad leaving.
The litany of losses crashes into me like a wave. This is why I threw myself into the corporate world and disconnected my heart from my mind. It was all work and responsibilities. I didn’t have to think about anything else. Until . . . until things unraveled.
It seems like a pattern in my life, doesn’t it? Something big has to happen for me to change once again, but I don’t want this. Should I call Oscar? My brother always had a way of grounding me, but we’ve drifted, too, in the way siblings often do.
And then there are the questions popping in my head: Why me? Why would Elena name me to care for her daughter instead of him? Why wouldn’t she reach out to me if she knew this would happen? Why now?
I don’t know the first thing about raising a child.
I stop at the row of mailboxes in the lobby and pull open mine, the familiar squeak of the hinge breaking the quiet. Among the usual flyers and bills, one envelope catches my eye. The handwriting is instantly recognizable.
Elena.
My breath catches as I clutch the letter, the script blurring slightly as tears threaten. I hold it tightly as I climb the stairs to my apartment.
Inside, I drop my bag onto the kitchen counter and turn on the kettle. The small space is mine—a haven of light and life. Plants line the windowsills, thriving even with the occasional missed watering. Shelves overflow with books, their spines soft from countless readings, and the walls are adorned with prints and paintings from friends and artists I’ve met along the way. It’s not grand, but it’s home.
It’s mine.
The letter sits on the counter, daring me to open it. I stare at it for a long moment, the kettle’s low hum filling the silence. Finally, I clumsily tear it open.
Inside is a single folded sheet of paper. Her handwriting is familiar yet strange, like seeing a ghost.
