The Sound of Forever

Chapter 29

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Julianna

The faint scent of 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.

He slows as he approaches the edge of the yard, his gaze landing on me. For a moment, I think he’s going to keep running, but then he stops, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. He hesitates, like he’s debating whether or not to say something. Finally, he speaks, his voice low and rough. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

I straighten from my pose, brushing my hands on my leggings. “You’re not interrupting,” I say, offering a small smile. “Just practicing.”

He steps closer, his movements slow and deliberate, like he’s wary of crossing some invisible line. “Yoga outside the studio?” he asks, glancing at the mat.

“Yeah,” I reply, folding my arms loosely across my chest. “It’s kind of my thing.”

He nods, his gaze flicking between me and the mat. “You look . . . It looks peaceful.”

“It can be,” I say. “Depends on the day.”

There’s a pause, the silence stretching between us. He shifts his weight, his hands resting on his hips as he catches his breath. “You just moved in, right?” he asks finally.

I nod. “You live nearby?”

“The house down the path,” he says, nodding toward the direction he came from. “Been here a few of months.”

“You should come by the studio again,” I suggest. “There’s a class tomorrow at noon.”

He lets out a short laugh, dry and humorless. “I don’t think I’m the yoga type. Pretzel poses seem too hard for a guy . . . like me.”

“You’d be surprised,” I say, keeping my tone light. Do I want to know what he means with ‘a guy like me’? Certainly, but this isn’t the time for questions. “It’s not about touching your toes or holding impossible poses. It’s about learning to breathe again. To feel like your body is yours. Sometimes just standing still is enough as long as you connect with your breath.”

His jaw tightens, and his eyes flicker with something I can’t quite place—hesitation, maybe even fear. Any second now he’s going to shrug it off and tell me to fuck off. But then, almost imperceptibly, he nods.

“Maybe,” he says, his voice quieter now. “We’ll see.”

“No pressure,” I offer, softening my smile. “The door’s always open. Or if you want to avoid people, you can join me here in the mornings.”

His gaze drifts to the mat, then to the house behind me. “Yeah, I can see how it’s different here. You’ve got a nice spot. Quiet.”

“That’s what I was aiming for,” I admit. “Moving here was a big change, but the quiet helps.”

He shifts his attention back to me, really looking this time. His eyes are intense, searching, like he’s trying to piece me together. I meet his gaze, surprised by the rawness in it, something that pulls at the edges of my chest, making it ache.

“Rayne is your kid, right?”

The question hits harder than I expect, and I take a step back. “How do you know Rayne?”

“She came by my deck yesterday,” he says. “Seemed like she was looking for something. Or maybe she lost something she’ll never find, but she’s hopeful.”

The instinct to keep things private wars with the sense that this man might need a connection. Someone to help him get out of whatever hole he’s been stuck in. If I open up, maybe he’ll trust me a little more.

“She’s my niece,” I explain, my voice careful but steady. “My sister died a few months ago. It’s been . . . an adjustment for both of us.”

He nods, his expression softening slightly. “I’ll keep an eye out for her if I see her alone. I’ll remind her to head back home.”

“Thank you,” I say, genuinely grateful. “That would mean a lot.”

“Good luck with the practice,” he says, stepping back onto the path. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Maybe,” I reply, watching as he jogs away, his footsteps fading into the distance.

I stand there, the morning air cool against my skin, trying to process the strange, unexpected conversation. There was something about him—something familiar and distant, like a half-remembered dream.

Shaking my head, I turn back to my mat, lowering myself into a seated position. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, letting it expand through me, trying to fill the spaces his presence left behind.

The world settles into quiet again, but it doesn’t feel the same.