Nikolai had always been captivated by birds. Their elegant wings, the way they soared effortlessly through the sky-it was a kind of beauty that never ceased to amaze him.
.
. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
.
He often watched them from his window, imagining what i...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The quiet hum of the house enveloped you as you leaned back in your chair, scrolling aimlessly through your phone. The familiar fizz of your soda filled the air when you set the can down, but it did little to break the silence that had settled in your home ever since your grandmother passed away.
Your hair clung to your neck and shoulders, still damp from the morning shower, and droplets of water trickled off your wings, soaking into the fabric of your shirt. You barely noticed, too preoccupied by the dull ache in your chest and the overwhelming sense of stillness that had overtaken the house. Everything felt... quieter now.
You let out a soft exhale, eyes drifting from the screen of your phone to the window where the sunlight filtered through the curtains. The soft, golden rays illuminated Ama's garden—the one she had tended to so lovingly, her hands always stained with soil as she carefully planted each flower with care. You could still see the remnants of her work, the flowers blooming vibrantly, standing as a testament to her presence.
A faint smile tugged at your lips, though it was bittersweet. You remembered watching her from this very spot, admiring how at peace she seemed among the plants. That garden had been her sanctuary, her pride, and joy. She would often drag you out there, despite your reluctance, to show you how much the roses had grown or to point out some new sprout she was excited about.
The memories felt so distant now. You hadn't stepped foot in the garden since she passed. It felt wrong somehow, like intruding on something sacred.
You slumped further in your chair, yawning as you tried to shake off the weight of your thoughts. The house was far too empty, far too quiet without her voice, without the sound of her laughter or the way she would hum old songs while she cooked breakfast. You missed those mornings when she would surprise you with her cooking experiments, even if half the time they didn't turn out the way she'd hoped.
The quiet moments, though, were the hardest. The ones like now, where you were left alone with your thoughts, the stillness of the house pressing in on you like a heavy blanket. Even the soft breeze that floated through the window couldn't lift the weight in your chest.
You hadn't been able to bring yourself to move her things yet. Her old armchair still sat by the window, the one she'd read in for hours on end, her reading glasses resting on the small side table beside it. You could almost imagine her sitting there, flipping through one of her many gardening books or knitting something with that content smile she always wore.
Your fingers absentmindedly scrolled through your phone, but your mind was elsewhere. It felt strange to be here without her—this was her house more than it had ever been yours. You had grown up here, of course, but it was her presence that made it feel like a home.
You bit your lip, a pang of sadness hitting you hard and fast. You weren't sure how to move forward, how to live in this space that felt so empty without her. It felt like you were stuck in time, like the world had continued spinning but you were left behind, still holding on to the echoes of her.
