Page 8 of The Sound of Forever
A strangled sound escapes me, muffled by the hand I press to my mouth. It’s foreign, raw, and full of anguish I’ve been trying to keep at bay since the phone call. Grief rises in my throat, acidic and unbearable, but I force it back down. Falling apart isn’t an option—not yet.
A nurse adjusts one of the machines in the corner, her movements precise and deliberate. I turn my head sharply, desperate for anything to distract me from the sight of Elena’s still form.
“Take your time,” the nurse says softly, her voice kind but distant. “Ms. Valencia,” the nurse continues, carefully now, as though she’s afraid I might shatter. “We’ll need you to sign some paperwork soon, but there’s no rush. Do you have someone we can call for you?”
“No,” I whisper, my voice cracking under the burden of the word. Oscar wouldn’t make it on time, and would he even care? “No, it’s just me.”
The nurse nods, her face unreadable, and leaves the room.
Silence envelops me, thick and unbearable. It’s filled with everything I should’ve said to Elena, all the calls I never made, all the moments I let slip away. Regret churns in my stomach, twisting with disbelief. This isn’t real. It can’t be.
But it is.
I force my feet to move closer to the bed. Elena looks smaller than I remember, fragile in a way she never was before. Her hair has been brushed back neatly, her lips slightly parted, as though she’s about to say something. I hover, unsure whether to reach for her hand, unsure if it’s even my place anymore.
The door creaks open behind me, the sound cutting through the oppressive quiet. Soft footsteps approach, and then I feel it—a small, warm hand slipping into mine.
I glance down and see her. A small child that could be six, maybe seven. Her wide brown eyes stare up at me, brimming with fear and questions I don’t know how to answer.
“Mommy?” she whispers, her voice trembling. She runs closer to the bed, trying to climb it but I guess the tears aren’t helping her see what she’s doing. “Mommy, wake up.”
My heart breaks in ways I didn’t know were possible.
I help her climb onto the bed, her tiny frame curling against Elena’s still body. “Mom, please,” she sobs, her voice cracking with desperation. “Don’t leave me. Please wake up. You said you would get better, remember?”
The room spins, the grief too sharp, too overwhelming. I reach out instinctively, pulling the little one into my arms as her small body shakes with uncontrollable sobs.
“I’m here,” I whisper, my voice thick and unsteady.
She clings to me, her fingers digging into my sweater as she cries. Her pain is raw and unfiltered, and I hold her tighter, as though I can absorb it, as though I can make any of this better.
But I can’t.
And that realization shatters me all over again.
ChapterFifteen
Keane
Day Fifty-Seven
I finally talked about her.
I finally acknowledged the loss of our daughter—the little baby Ophelia was so excited about, the one she dreamed of holding, loving, raising. And I . . . the one I wasn’t sure I wanted.
The admission burns as it leaves me, dragging with it a guilt so profound it feels like I might drown in it. It’s not just the words—it’s what they mean, what they’ve always meant. I didn’t just lose her that day. I failed her. Both of them.
I see it so clearly now. The flash of headlights, the screech of tires, the sound of metal folding in on itself. It replays in my head like a haunting, over and over, no matter how tightly I squeeze my eyes shut. And then there was silence—until everything became dark.
I didn’t get to see our baby’s first breath. I didn’t get to feel her little hand curling around mine. I didn’t get to see Ophelia’s face light up the way it did when she was happy, when she was dreaming of the family she thought we’d be.
Instead, I woke up five years later to nothing. To no memories, no family, and just a doctor asking me a billion questions about who I was. The accident had claimed our daughter before she could even take her first breath. And Ophelia? She had to piece her life together alone.
That’s another reason why I had to let her go. I’m okay with it now. I realized I didn’t love her the way she deserved, but our child—our little girl . . .
I’ve been thinking about her.
Fifty-seven days ago, I couldn’t even acknowledge her existence. I couldn’t talk about her, couldn’t think about the life she should have lived, the future ripped away in a single, shattering moment. The guilt was unbearable. The grief was a tidal wave I couldn’t outrun.
