Love after Death (S1) [Completed]

Chapter 47: The Echoes of a Lost Spring

Liam's POV

Nine years. And yet, the weight of this date presses against me as it always has-like a grief that never loosens.

Monique died on March 17, 2007.

Seventeen years old.

Born April 8, 1989. Just three weeks short of turning eighteen. Mom had whispered about a small cake, about decorating the living room in pale yellow, about quietly inviting a few friends so she wouldn't feel left out.

But that spring never came for her.

The cemetery is quiet, softer than any mansion ever was. Every step we take echoes lightly against the stone paths. Michael walks beside me, hands buried in his coat pockets, shoulders stiff, bracing for something invisible. Mom walks ahead, clutching white lilies as though the flowers themselves might break if she loosens her grip.

She always carries them herself.

"Still trying to win a favorite child even in death," Michael mutters under his breath.

I nudge him lightly. "You're just mad because she never bought you lilies."

He throws me a sideways glance. "I prefer low maintenance."

Mom looks back, her expression soft but sharp. "I can hear you both, you know."

We smile.

All three of us.

The kind of smile that stretches thin, brittle, and doesn't reach the eyes.

The headstone comes into view.

Monique
April 8, 1989 - March 17, 2007

Seventeen years, carved cleanly in stone.

Mom kneels first, as she always does. She arranges the lilies carefully, adjusting each stem until it sits just right. Her fingers linger over the engraved name.

"Hi, baby."

Michael crouches beside her, wiping the marble with a cloth he brings every year - ritualistic, careful, unnecessary. I remain standing. I don't feel worthy to kneel. None of us ever truly healed.

Mom straightens slightly and exhales softly. "I still can't believe it's been nine years."

Michael gives a humorless chuckle. "Nine years and you're still talking to her like she's going to answer."

Mom shoots him a sharp glance. "Better than pretending she didn't exist."

I force a small, ghostly smile. Michael grins back at her. Their banter is too practiced to be real, but we cling to it anyway.

"You're still rearranging her favorite things in your memory," Michael says, eyes on the lilies. "She'd roll her eyes at that."

"She was particular, okay?" Mom replies, voice softening. "Not everything can be chaos."

I step closer, forcing my own laugh. "You labeled the shelves, remember? Alphabetized the spices."

Mom throws me a look over her shoulder. "That was efficiency."

Michael laughs quietly. "Efficiency, sure. Alphabetized chaos, maybe."