𝑽𝑨𝑳𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑨 | 𝐓.𝐒 |

𝒙𝒙𝒊𝒗. 𝒗𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝. It had been like that for days, the kind of stillness that crawled under Valentina's skin, refusing to leave. She sat on the edge of the bed in the dimly lit room, clutching the small urn to her chest, as if the delicate porcelain could somehow hold all of her shattered pieces together. Her body was folded in on itself, like she could make herself disappear, sink into the quiet darkness and never come back out.

In that urn were the ashes of the child she hadn't even known she was carrying until it was too late. Her child. Her throat tightened, her breath ragged, and a pain so deep and raw filled her chest, she could barely hold it. She had carried life within her, but now, all that remained of it sat cold and lifeless in her trembling hands. Her arms tightened around the urn, pulling it closer, but it would never be close enough. No amount of clutching or holding could bring her baby back.

Her body felt alien to her, like a cruel vessel that had deceived her, betraying her in ways she couldn't comprehend. She had been a mother—if only for a moment—and now she wasn't. The emptiness she felt inside her was vast, like a black hole, devouring her from the inside out. She had nothing left to give. Not a scream, not even tears. Just this hollow ache that seemed to stretch on forever.

Grief weighed on her chest like a thousand stones, pressing down until she felt like she couldn't breathe. Her head spun with memories she couldn't escape. She remembered the hospital, waking up in that stark, sterile room with the doctor standing by her side, their words muffled through the haze of medication and pain. The baby hadn't survived.

The words had hit her like a blow, but it wasn't until she saw Thomas' face, twisted in sorrow and guilt, that the rage had come. You killed my child. Her voice had been sharp, slicing through the air like a knife. And Thomas, with his jaw clenched tight, had whispered back, Our child. But Valentina hadn't heard him. She couldn't. All she could see was the wreckage of her life, the destruction of everything she had built, everything she had lost, and all of it tied back to him.

In the stillness of the present moment, her mind drifted to her family. The same pain she felt now—the wrenching, soul-crushing grief—was probably the same pain her parents had carried after her sister was executed. She had never truly understood it before, had never really allowed herself to feel what they must have felt. But now, holding the ashes of her child in her arms, she realized that this grief was familiar—it had always been with her, lurking in the background of her life. She was born into it, raised in it. 

The memories of her sister's execution came rushing back like a flood—her parents' broken faces, the way they had become hollowed out by the loss, by the guilt, by the helplessness. How they had whispered her sister's name like it was a prayer and a curse all at once. She had grown up in the shadow of that grief, and now, it had found her too.

Valentina's body shuddered, her arms tightening even more around the urn as if she could draw strength from it, but all she felt was the cold. She was exhausted. Tired in a way that went beyond physical fatigue. Tired of the lies, tired of the pain, tired of the endless cycle of loss that seemed to follow her, generation after generation. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was how it ended.

Her thoughts darkened, sinking into the despair that gripped her heart. She was tired of fighting, tired of surviving. She had tried—she had tried to escape her past, to build a life with Thomas, but all she had done was walk straight into the same kind of misery that had destroyed her parents. She couldn't do it anymore.

She just wanted it to stop. The pain. The grief. The never-ending weight of it all. She wanted peace, whatever that meant. Whether it was in this world or the next, it didn't matter anymore. She had nothing left to hold onto. Her family was dead. Her child was dead. And in so many ways, she was dead too.