30. June
June
I’m sitting on the damp grass outside, the moisture seeping through the thin fabric of my skirt, but I don’t bother to move. My back is pressed against the rough, weeping bark of a willow tree, its long, shadowing branches creating a curtain of green that shields me from the rest of the world.
I have a book of poetry open in my lap, its leather cool and grounding against my thighs.
I’m reading the verses out loud to Nana.
It feels silly…a performance for an audience that can no longer hear me, but it’s the only way to fill the screaming silence that’s been following me around since the ambulance lights faded from Nana’s driveway.
When I speak, the vibration in my throat reminds me I still exist.
I miss her so much it feels like a physical deformity.
Part of me is still caught in a loop, expecting to hear the familiar whistle of the tea kettle or the comforting creak of the floorboards late at night.
But then I look at the marble headstone, stark and white against the green, and the reality hits me like a shot to the heart.
I’m grateful for the home Julian is trying to build for me here at the Manor.
They’ve spared no expense, turning one of the grand guest rooms in the East Wing into a space that is mine.
It has soft, plush rugs, heavy velvet curtains to block out the world, and shelves filled with every book I ever mentioned in passing.
Julian spends every evening perched on the edge of my bed, coaxing me to eat, his eyes searching mine with a desperate pleading intensity.
Even Cain has been… different. He’s been doting on me in his own chilling, detached way, ensuring my tea is never cold and my path is always clear.
But there’s something else simmering beneath the surface, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, gleaming in his eyes when he looks at me—the same haunted, hollowed-out look he had after Annie died.
I hate it. I hate feeling like a broken porcelain doll in a house full of clumsy giants.
The neighbours have been relentless with casseroles and sympathy cards, but I can’t face them.
Not yet. Hearing people say they’re “sorry” only makes everything feel more real.
It quickly turns Nana into a memory. I look at the pristine grass beside her plot and find myself wishing Annie were buried here, too.
I’d feel better if I had them both within arm’s reach.
I’ll ask Julian to take me to see Annie tomorrow.
He won’t say no; he never says no to me, he never really has, but right now it’s like he’s been atoning for something—the silence of the last six months, perhaps…
though I’m too tired to investigate the depth of his guilt.
For now, I just lean my head against the bark and keep reading.
A sleek, crow the colour of midnight cuts through the gloomy afternoon sky, landing directly on top of the marble angel guarding Nana’s tombstone. I jumped, my head snapping up from my book as its loud, harsh caw shattered the silence of the garden.
My heart did a quick, familiar flutter before settling back down.
I closed the book in my lap, watching the bird preen its dark, iridescent feathers against the pale stone.
I’d had a pair of crows visiting me every single day for the last week.
In a place so heavy with grief, their constant presence had become a strange sort of comfort.
I leaned back against the willow tree, a soft, melancholy smile touching my lips.
I liked to think it was Nana and Annie, coming back to see me in the only way they could, letting me know that wherever they were now... they were okay.
A twig breaking behind me breaks my concentration.
Julian’s presence is like a magnetic pull, a sudden shift in the air.
I keep reading, the words of the poem a shield between us.
He doesn’t say a word as he moves behind me and gently pulls me back until I’m sitting in his lap.
He wraps his arms around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder, letting me lean into the solid strength of his chest while the cool breeze stirs around us.
Nearby, the soft, fading rhythm of Blue ?yster Cult spins out from the record player inside, the distant lyrics whispering we can be like they are right into the heavy silence between us.
For a long time, we just sit there beside Nanas grave. His fingers trace idle, repetitive patterns on my arm. He finally reaches out, his hand covering mine on the page, and gently takes the book. His voice is a low, soothing drone as he picks up where I left off.
“Julian?” I whisper.
He stops instantly. “Yeah, Junebug?”
“Can you take me to see Annie tomorrow?” I ask. “I haven’t been… not once since we buried her. I need to tell her about Nana.”
He stays quiet for a heartbeat, his grip on my waist tightening. Then he leans in and kisses the side of my head. “Of course. I’ll take you first thing in the morning. We’ll get some fresh flowers on the way and take some roses from the garden.”
He pulls back slightly to look at me, his thumb grazing my cheekbone, tracing the fading yellow of the bruise Billy left behind. “Are you okay, June?”
I just shrug, my throat feeling like it’s been lined with lead. “I’m sorry,” I sob, finally breaking, burying my face in the crook of his neck. “I don’t know why I can’t stop. I’m so tired of crying.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he murmurs, his fingers tangling in my hair, holding me close. “Just breathe, June. I’ve got you.”
The drive back from Annie’s memorial the next day was quiet.
My chest felt hollow—an ache that follows a long bout of hysteria.
The plot was beautiful, littered with flowers and keepsakes—a stark contrast to the lonely, marble dignity of Nana’s grave.
It was so… Annie. Bright, even in the dirt.
I’d wept as I spoke to her, telling her how different the world felt and how I’d give anything just to hear her laugh one more time.
Now, as the iron gates of the Manor close behind me, I lean my head against the glass of the window.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice raspy. “For taking me.”
Keeping his eyes locked on the road ahead, Julian reaches over and laces his fingers with mine.
“You don’t ever have to thank me, June. I am here for you. Always.”
We pull up to the house, and I look at the statues and the rose garden where Nana is buried. It’s strange how this place, which used to feel like a fortress I was only allowed to visit on a leash, now feels like a carefully constructed second home.
“Do you want to go back to the garden and read?” Julian asks softly. “Or do you want to go upstairs and lie down? I can bring you some tea. Or just stay with you, we could watch a movie?.”
“Stay with me?” I asked. “I don’t want to be alone with my head right now.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises.
The Manor is quiet as we head towards the grand staircase. I catch a glimpse of Cain standing at the end of the hall, framed by the amber light of the library. A quiet intensity anchors him as he watches us with his trademark unreadable, creepy expression.
I shiver and lean into Julian. Ignoring his brother entirely, he steers me up the staircase, consumed by getting me into the safety of my room.
The rain assaults the Manor roof tonight, hammering down on the old stone.
It lashes against the heavy glass, sounding like thousands of tiny, frantic fingers trying to claw their way inside.
The sky is black, periodically torn apart by lightning that turns the shadows of my room into something unfamiliar.
Then comes the thunder—a low, rumbling growl that vibrates through the ancient stone walls.
I’m buried under a mountain of pillows, shivering. I feel like that girl again, the one who lived in a house where the storms outside were often quieter than the ones inside.
“Julian?”
He’s been sitting in the armchair by the cold fireplace. He moves instantly. The bed groans as he slides in beside me. The scent of him wraps around me like a blanket.
“I’m here, Junebug,” he murmurs.
I reach for him, pulling myself into his warmth. I press my cheek against his chest, right over the spot where I know my name is etched into his skin forever, and as the house shudders, the walls of the Manor seem to dissolve.
Suddenly, the silk beneath me feels like scratchy cotton. The air smells like stale, cheap beer and cigarette smoke. I’m ten years old again. The sky is screaming, and my father’s shouting has finally stopped, replaced by the heavy silence of his drunken sleep.
I remember the bite of the rain as I slid my window open. I ran through the mud until I reached the base of the Blackburns’ iron gates. Bypassing the front door entirely, I headed straight for the window I knew was always unlocked.
I remember the struggle of the climb, my small fingers catching on the ivy. When I finally tumbled into Julian’s room, I was a drowned rat, shaking so hard my teeth were clicking.
Julian wasn’t asleep. He was sitting up, a book in his hand, looking like a little prince in the amber glow of a single candle. Without a word, he set his book aside and pulled back the heavy blankets to welcome me in.
“Come here, June,” he’d said back then.
I’d crawled in beside him, and he’d wrapped his arms around me, shielding me from the flashes of light that turned his room into a gallery of monsters. I remember the steady thrum of his heart against my ear—the first time I realised that as long as I was near him, the sky couldn’t hurt me.