Chapter Sixteen
Rowen
I sat on the floor in my room, my fingers curled tightly around the two envelopes my brother had given me, their edges biting into my palms as I refused to let go.
The room was thick with the scent of old laundry and the lingering trace of his cologne, making my chest ache with every breath.
The memory of his words and the weight of the promise I’d made pressed heavily on me, echoed by the faint murmurs and a soft, muffled sob drifting through the thin walls.
For a fleeting moment, I had a brother; that knowledge—so fragile and precious—now tore at something deep within me.
I traced my thumb over the sealed flaps, wishing the paper could somehow hold on to the warmth of his presence, the sound of his laughter, or the gentle cadence of his voice.
Instead, there was only silence and the ache of knowing it was over far too soon, the somber hush broken only by the quiet crying across the hall—his woman, mourning a life she barely got to live, searching for comfort I couldn’t provide.
He was gone before I ever got the chance to truly know him, to hear his stories or share in his dreams. The only connection I had left to him was Melissa, who sobbed quietly in her room just steps away.
Her cries seeped through the night, blending with the creak of the old floorboards and the distant sounds of the ocean, amplifying my own grief.
I wanted to scream, to rage at the unfairness of it all, but all that escaped was a shaky breath as tears slid silently down my cheeks, mingling with the cool night air and the emptiness he’d left behind.
The night stretched endlessly, the hush in the house thick and oppressive, as I tried to make sense of a world that had shifted so violently beneath my feet. The letters felt heavier with every passing minute—full of everything unsaid, everything unfinished.
Somewhere beyond these walls, life continued on, indifferent and unstoppable, but in this small room, time was suspended, holding me captive between a few vague memories and the ache of loss I could barely understand.
“Rowen?”
Sinclair kneeled before me, his expression marked by clear worry and concern.
I looked up at him, unsure of the reason for his presence, yet acutely aware of the comfort it offered in that moment.
His presence alone stirred confusion in me—I couldn’t quite understand why he had come, nor could I decipher the emotions his concern sparked within me.
Struggling to find the words, I finally spoke, my voice trembling as tears continued to fall.
“I don’t know why I’m crying,” I admitted, feeling both embarrassed and vulnerable.
“I barely knew him.” The grief felt disproportionate, and yet I could not stop myself; the tears came, betraying the emptiness and loss that lingered even in the absence of a true connection.
Sinclair reached out, his hands trembling slightly as he pulled me close, enveloping me in his strong arms. Outside, the steady sounds of the surf mingled with the rhythmic sound of our breathing.
The warmth of his arms wrapped around me was a stark contrast to the cool, damp air of my room, and I felt the reassuring pressure of his chest as he held me close.
“It’s all right to grieve,” Sinclair murmured, his voice wavering with emotion but still steady enough to anchor me amidst my turmoil.
I could smell the faint trace of his cologne and the salty sea spray leaking in from outside, grounding me in the moment.
“Sometimes, loss isn’t measured by time, but by the space someone occupies in your heart—even if only for a moment. ”
My hands clung to his shirt, fingers curling tightly in the fabric as my body shook with silent sobs.
His quiet understanding and the soothing cadence of his words offered comfort that seeped through my sadness as I pressed my face against his shoulder—grateful for the gentle acceptance in his embrace.
Throughout the night, Sinclair sat there with me, holding me while I mourned a man, a brother I barely knew.
“Unka Row.”
Her small voice drifted up, uncertain but sweet, tethering me to the present. I glanced down at her, her toes buried in the cool, damp sand, and answered aloud, “Yes, sweetheart.” I tried to sound steady for her sake, though the ache inside me felt exposed in the glow of sunrise.
She’d found me before dawn, creeping into my room with hungry eyes and tangled hair, barely awake. I’d asked about her parents—her father lost in sleep, perhaps, and her mother lost in a way she could not fathom—and she only shrugged, answering with silence.
The house had been hushed, its corridors thick with the residue of sleepless sorrow—grief heavy as fog, pressing into every corner.
Not even Sinclair’s familiar footsteps could be heard.
I dressed her and myself in silence, the ritual oddly soothing, then carried her down the creaking stairs, careful not to disturb the slumbering weight of mourning that filled each room.
In the kitchen, I made her a simple breakfast—a quiet rebellion against emptiness—before bringing her outside, where the world was new and the tide whispered possibility.
“Where is Daddy Ghost?”
Her question hovered between us, fragile and searching.
I drew a shaky breath, brushing a stray curl from her forehead, stalling as I listened to the hush of waves and the hush behind us—a house holding its breath, a family not yet able to speak of absence.
The salt air was sharp on my tongue, the sand cool against my feet, grounding me as I searched for gentleness.
I wanted to guard her from the hard truth, to bottle this moment before the world pressed in.
I held her close, the warmth of her small body steadying my own trembling.
The scent of seaweed and distant sun-warmed pines mingled in the air.
Softly, I answered—not just for her, but for myself, “Daddy Ghost had to go away, sweetheart.” My words tasted strange, both tender and bitter.
“Sometimes the ones we love aren’t far, even when we can’t see them.
He’s with us—in here.” I pressed her little hand to her chest, hoping she’d feel something other than loss.
“Will he come back?”
Her fingers twisted in the hem of her shirt, and I saw confusion flicker in her eyes, hope clinging stubbornly to the edges of heartbreak. My mind scrambled for words that might offer comfort, wishing I could promise more than memory.
I tried to smile, though the morning breeze stung my eyes. “No, sweetheart,” I said, keeping my voice gentle as the hush of foam at our feet. “But we’ll hold him close in our memories, and in that way, he never really leaves us.”
As I spoke, the gulls wheeled overhead, and the cold, wet sand clung to our toes; the ocean’s steady rhythm was a small comfort against the vast and echoing quiet left by those who vanished far too soon.