The Wailing Woman

75. Cold Black Heart

It's been nine days since my father has been gone. I don't know what to do after. But then I remember once going with my grandmother to a woman's house whose son had passed. Many people were there with their rosaries and used them as they spoke their prayers in unison to the picture of the boy. He was surrounded by colorful candles. My grandmother never once uttered a word of their prayers. Neither did I.

But we went there for nine days straight, and they prayed every day because they believed the body and soul wouldn't rest without it. I'm no religious person. And I knew my father's soul was resting somewhere despite not being able to bury his body. But I felt like I needed to do something for him. I felt like his soul was watching me here, though I knew he wasn't.

I found this old folded photo of my father and mother. Grimm left it for me on my bedside table the next morning. It seemed like it was one of the things that my father kept in his wallet. So, I lit a new candle every day for him. Well, Dilara had done it for me. We didn't pray. I simply embraced a few minutes of silence until I felt the urge to cry again.

I couldn't look at the photo for more than three minutes.

I stayed in my room most of the time. During the day I would sleep and at night I would lay awake. I hardly spoke. My throat still burned and felt scratched as if I'd never stopped screaming. I couldn't do anything with my hands either. They remained scarred and tightly wrapped in white bandages. It made it more difficult to grab things. Sometimes my fingers would weirdly flex or twitch on their own accord. I couldn't lift a spoon when I wanted to.

Still, there would be times I would get this strange sensation of a hundred needles pricking my palms. Then it would quietly disappear.

Dilara and Hans believed I had overexerted myself. From the night my father died to the morning of it. I had exhausted my hands—my magic. But my body doesn't have a limit. I know it doesn't. There is an infinite amount of power stored inside of me. These injuries were only a small inconvenience for now, but once they healed...

There would be more of me than there was of them.

But for now, I was looking for Grimm. The sun wasn't out today. The gray clouds gathered above like it was brewing a storm. A shiver passed through me. He couldn't have gone too far. I searched for him everywhere in the house and out in the greenhouse. I know he hasn't left yet. If he did plan to leave for the dead lands he would tell me.

After my father's short funeral, Grimm has not left my side. He read my inheritance to me while I lay in my bed and pulled the blankets over my head trying to ignore him. He was trying so hard to get me to talk, to get me to eat, to get me to do anything. He even pleaded for me to scream.

But I only said. "On the ninth day, I'll do it. I'll do all of it." He complied.

And here I was looking for him. I wanted to give him some candy I found in my father's duffle bag. They were on the sweeter side, I think Grimm would enjoy them more. I didn't want them to go to waste. I could've easily called him but I needed the walk. I needed to be distracted for a bit before I met Grimm. There were important things I wanted to tell him too.

Yet he was nowhere to be found.

The winds softly blew and a tumble of dry leaves stumbled into the nearby forest. I frowned. I crossed my arms and walked into the unclear path of the chilly forest as I continued my search for Grimm. The trail slowly became lost merging into dirt, leaves, and thick broken branches.

Strangely as I walked further, the trees billowed as if they were dancing. The leaves were less dry and more livelier. I didn't know green leaves could survive cold weather for this long. Each breath I took felt as fresh as a mint leaf.