Back in the house with her husband, days passed in a blur of strange silence. There were tears, too—though she could barely recall when they came or stopped. Everything felt distant, muffled, like watching her life through thick glass.
The day of the funeral arrived. She stood among a sea of people. Her brother later said over 4,000 had signed their names. She hadn't realized her father had touched so many lives. The crowd moved slowly through the cemetery, following the procession to his resting place. She stood near the grave, listening to the voices of others—speeches, stories, memories shared aloud.
When the formal words ended and people began to drift away, she stepped forward and asked if she could speak. But as she opened her mouth, her knees gave out. She fell to the ground, sobbing. Words spilled out—how she wished to see him again, how she wasn't ready to let go. An old family friend came to her side and held her gently, offering comfort.
But when she looked up, she saw sharp eyes—her own family watching her breakdown with cool disapproval. Their glances did not hold space for her grief. She felt their judgment like a second weight on her shoulders.
After returning to the family home, surrounded by a smaller circle—his sisters, their families, close relatives—conversation turned practical. Someone asked her how she lived now. She answered honestly: about foraging, about needing to butcher for food. One aunt looked horrified. But this was her life—built from survival, not luxury. It was what had to be done, even if others didn't understand.
Strangely, talking helped. The more she shared, the more solid she felt. When the last guests left, she seemed calm. She even smiled. But inside, she was splintered, held together by will and habit alone.
And when she returned home with her husband, something had changed. The grief had carved new space inside her. Life would not return to how it was. Not quite.
Returning home, something in her had shifted. The rooms felt colder, quieter, even when the fire was lit. Grief settled into the corners of the house like dust—unspoken, unseen, but everywhere. She moved slower. Her hands, once eager to craft and color, hesitated now. The dreamcatcher above her bed barely swayed.
She tried to return to her routines—cooking, tidying, tending to the small garden—but everything felt hollow. Her husband didn't ask how she felt. He offered no words of comfort, no arms to hold her when she woke from tear-stained dreams. He returned to his chair, his screen, his silence.
She began walking longer again. Into the forest, sometimes with her wolfdog, sometimes alone. The air was sharper now. The trees bare. But still, she walked. She whispered to the wind. She gathered pinecones, moss, and wild herbs—anything she could bring home and shape with her hands, to feel alive again.
She threw herself into cooking and cleaning, as if scrubbing the floors or kneading dough could soften the ache in her chest. Her hands were never still. She baked croissants with trembling fingers, brushed cinnamon onto soft dough with tears slipping silently down her cheeks. Cheese rolls, sugar cookies, anything she could find ingredients for—if she could afford the things to cook with, she bought them. And if not, she improvised.
The oven warmed the cold kitchen, and the scent of vanilla, spice, and bread filled the air, comforting in a way words never could. She rubbed every surface of the home clean, again and again, even if it already sparkled. It wasn't about the dirt. It was about moving, doing, surviving.
But still, she cried. Quietly while stirring a pot. Loudly when no one was near. Sometimes just a few tears mid-task, other times sobbing until she had to sit down. Her grief had nowhere to go, so she buried it under flour and soap, spices and steam.
Her life grew harsher after her father's death. She cried in her own solitude, tears falling quietly where no one would see. When others asked how she was, she smiled-a practiced smile, a mask held in place by habit, not truth. Grief became a silent companion.
But then, her younger sister began to visit. A small child with curly hair like soft spirals of light, looking almost like an angel. She was sweet, innocent, unaware of the weight her presence carried. Now, fatherless too, she came seeking love-though she could not name it.
Their mother had found a new partner and was often gone. The little brother was there but not enough-not a mother, not a father. Grandmother was slipping away in the fog of dementia, no longer the warm lap or soft voice the child once knew.
So each school vacation, the girl came to her older sister's home.
They talked in whispers and giggles, drew pictures side by side, walked outside with crumbs in their pockets for birds, and baked simple treats together. The small child leaned on her like a sunflower turns to light. And she-grieving, wounded-felt the ache soften when those tiny hands held hers. They were different generations of sorrow, but they stitched something between them. Not a full healing, but a beginning. A bond.
When her little sister was not visiting, the house felt heavy again. Quiet in the wrong way. Still, she found something that gave her peace-her guitar.
She began to understand how her feelings flowed through the instrument. If she was sad, the notes came out like soft raindrops falling on quiet soil. If she felt joy, the strings sang-lively, jumping like birds startled into flight. She played while sitting outside under trees or curled near the fireplace when it rained. Sometimes, she cried while playing, but the music always helped her release what words could not hold.
Her husband, locked into his computer world, barely noticed. Occasionally, he would try to mimic her melodies with his mouth, awkwardly and with no rhythm. It felt less like joining in and more like mockery. She never said anything, only lowered her eyes and kept playing. The guitar did not laugh at her. It understood.
The guitar became more than wood and strings. It became her diary, her prayer, her silent scream. When she could not speak her grief, her fingers spoke for her. Every chord held something-memories, fears, longing. She didn't need to explain anything to the guitar. It listened without interrupting.
At first, she only played for herself, curled up in corners where no one could hear. But slowly, without noticing, her songs began to change. The sadness was still there, but now there were moments of light. Her fingers sometimes danced on the strings, playful and curious. As if hope had started humming quietly in the background.
There were days when she'd pause mid-song and realize she had not cried that morning. Days when a melody she created made her smile. Small things, but real.
She began to carry the guitar with her more often-to the garden, the forest edge, even when she sat with her sister. And sometimes, when no one else was near, she'd sing softly. Not for anyone else. Just for herself, for the girl she used to be, and for the woman she was becoming.
In music, she stitched herself back together. Not quickly, not fully-but gently. One note at a time.