The Sound of Forever

Chapter 56

Chapter Fifty-Six

Keane

Reading a different story every night to Rayne is now an important part of my routine. Tonight, it’s one about a brave little fox who ventures into the forest to help her friends. Rayne’s wide eyes track the illustrations, her head resting against my shoulder, her small arm clutching her bunny.

When I turn the last page, her eyelids are drooping, her breathing slow and steady—a telltale sign she’s teetering on the edge of sleep. Carefully, I set the book on top of her nightstand and pull her blanket up, tucking it snugly around her. She murmurs something incoherent but doesn’t stir when I smooth a hand over her hair. Leaning down, I press a kiss to her forehead.

“Goodnight, little fox,” I whisper, and then, softly, I begin to hum a lullaby.

Every night is a new one, something that comes to mind right as I’m about to leave her room. It’s soft and low, a melody I’ve found for this exact moment. By the time I stand, she’s fast asleep, her tiny body relaxed in a way that makes my chest ache. Not in a bad way, but with the gravity of all the responsibility I’ve chosen to carry. And with the growing awareness that I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

I linger for a moment, watching her, before heading back downstairs. As I descend the stairs, the faint scent of lavender and honey wafts toward me.

Julie is curled up on the couch, one leg tucked beneath her, a mug of tea cradled in her hands. The glow from the table lamp casts a soft halo around her, illuminating the lines of her face—lines I’ve come to memorize.

“How’s she doing?” she asks, her voice quiet but tinged with curiosity.

“Out like a light,” I say, dropping onto the couch beside her. The cushions dip beneath my weight, and I stretch my arm across the backrest, letting the tension from the day ease out of my shoulders. “She didn’t even stir when I adjusted her blanket.”

Julianna exhales, her shoulders sagging with relief. “That kid has been through so much,” she says softly, staring into her mug. Her thumb traces the rim, her movements absent but purposeful. “Sometimes I forget how resilient she is.”

“She gets it from you,” I reply without hesitation.

Her eyes meet mine. She gifts me with a smile. It’s small, almost shy, as though she doesn’t quite know how to accept the compliment. She takes a sip of her tea, probably using it as a buffer.

“You want one?” she asks, nodding toward her mug. “There’s still hot water left in the kettle.”

“I’m good,” I say, leaning back into the couch. “Not much of a tea guy. Coffee’s more my thing.”

She chuckles, shaking her head. “You and your coffee. Do you even sleep, or do you just run on caffeine and charm?”

“Mostly charm,” I deadpan.

Her laugh this time is unrestrained, full, and one of my favorite sounds in the world. It’s a laugh that makes me feel like I’ve done something right, even if just for a moment.

She sets her mug down on the coffee table. That’s when I notice the corner of an envelope peeking out from under a stack of papers, its edges worn as though it’s been opened and read a hundred times. She follows my gaze and hesitates before pulling it free. It’s a letter, the handwriting on the front neat. She holds it in her lap, her fingers tracing over the words as if she’s memorizing their texture.

“Another one from your mom?” I ask gently.

She nods, her gaze fixed on the envelope. “There aren’t many. But I’ve read them every day. This one . . . well, I could probably recite it by heart. It’s all I have left of her.”

“Do you miss her?” The question is out before I can stop it.

Her gaze shifts to mine, startled, before they quickly drop back to the letter. She nods, her voice barely above a whisper. “Every day. Losing her felt like losing a part of myself. Not having this until now makes it hurt just a little more.”

I’m not great with words in moments like this, so I just let her talk, hoping it’ll help.

“Mom always knew what to do,” Julianna continues. “When things got hard, she had this way of making everything feel manageable. Like no matter how bad things were, we’d figure it out together.”

She swallows hard, her fingers caressing the envelope with so much care, you’d think it’s a treasure. “I want to be that for Rayne, but most days, I feel like I’m fumbling through it all. She deserves so much more than me just . . . trying to figure things out as I go. And what if I lose her to the family who’s trying to claim her.”

“Hey,” I say, leaning forward, closing the space between us. “Don’t sell yourself short. Rayne’s lucky to have you. You’re doing more than enough. And the custody thing? We’ll handle it. You said yourself, if Steve’s her biological father and his family wants a relationship with her, it could be a good thing—as long as they’re good people and stay in their lane.”

Her lips press together, but she nods. “As long as they’re good people,” she repeats softly. “But I won’t let them take her away from me.”

“Of course we won’t. They’ll have to get through me first,” I add, trying not to be angry, but I’m fucking upset at this new development.

She glances at me, her smile small but genuine. “What about you?” she asks after a beat. “What was your mom like?”

The question catches me off guard. I’m quiet for a moment, gathering my thoughts. “She was flawed,” I say finally. “She had this way of making everyone around her feel special, but she hovered. She wanted me to live the life she pictured for me—not the one I wanted. I loved her, but forgiving her . . . and myself . . . it has been a process.”

She doesn’t need to know how miserable she made Ophelia’s life, and how I let her. That’s something for the therapist and myself. It’s a work in progress, but I’ve been doing better on all fronts.

“And your dad?” she continues.

“The famous Kit Stone,” I confirm with a wry smile. “He was okay. Loved him too. But honestly? Neither one of my parents should have been allowed to have children. They were . . . negligent. We survived, but just barely.”

Julie reaches out, placing a hand on mine. “With time you’ll learn to forgive them, and you have to remember that you’re not them.”

“I’m trying to . . . do better,” I say, not sure if I’m talking about being a better person by forgiving them, or by not being them. Probably both.

Her thumb brushes against my hand, and I feel something shift between us. Her gaze holds mine, searching, and I lean forward, unable to stop myself. When our lips meet, it’s soft, tentative, but it deepens quickly. Her hands slide to my chest, and I pull her closer, one hand threading into her hair. This woman, this beautiful woman is not only allowing me into her space, but supporting me as I find who I can be. She’s everything.

Julianna Valencia is the light that cuts through the vast, endless dark, a defiant spark in a world too often dimmed. She’s music—not fleeting or hollow, but a rhythm that lingers, winding its way into the deepest corners of my being, leaving everything fuller.

She’s the sound of what’s good in the world, soft and unassuming, like laughter carried on the wind or the first notes of a song you’ve never heard but already know by heart. She’s the sound of caterpillars transforming into butterflies, delicate and painstaking, proof that beauty is born from struggle, that fragility can birth wings.

And she’s the sound of my soul, pulsing with life I forgot could exist, the quiet melody of something long lost rediscovering its song. Every part of her demands to be heard, even when I feel unworthy of the music.

When we kiss, we’re not just touching. We’re making music in the deepest, most hidden parts of ourselves. It’s a symphony of every ache and every longing, every hope I thought I’d buried. She’s the crescendo, the rising chord that makes it impossible to stay silent, and I can’t help but give myself over to her song—completely, utterly, forever.

As we finally part, her forehead rests against mine, and we’re both breathing harder.

“Keane,” she whispers, her voice trembling.

“Yeah?” I murmur, my thumb brushing her cheek.

“I’m glad you’re part of my life.” Her lips curve into the softest smile.

“Me too,” I reply, meaning it more than I ever have before.

“Will you stay the night?” she asks.

“As long as I’m invited, I’ll be here as long as you want,” I respond, kissing her again.