The next morning, the house was quiet. Lena sat at the kitchen table, staring into her mug of coffee as if the swirling cream might offer her some kind of answer. The conversation with Clara played on repeat in her mind, each word laced with sadness and the painful truth of things left broken.
She didn't hear Jace come in until he placed a hand gently on her shoulder. "You okay?"
She looked up, startled. "Yeah. Just... thinking."
He sat across from her, watching her with that cautious expression he'd adopted in recent months—part concern, part uncertainty, as if waiting for something to fall apart. "Is it Clara?"
Lena nodded. "She's trying. I know she is. But I don't think she knows how to move forward. And maybe... maybe I don't either."
Jace leaned back, running a hand through his hair. "I hate that this still hurts her. That we're part of why she feels lost."
"She said she doesn't know where she fits anymore," Lena said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I keep telling her she does, but... maybe words aren't enough."
A silence stretched between them, not cold, but contemplative. Finally, Jace spoke. "Maybe it's not about fixing things. Maybe it's about rebuilding. Not what was, but what could be."
Lena considered that. Rebuilding. It sounded hopeful—but heavy, too. Like starting over on ground that still held the cracks of the past.
That afternoon, Lena found Clara in the backyard, curled up in the old hammock with a journal in her lap. She hesitated at the door, then stepped outside.
Clara didn't look up at first, but her voice came softly. "I've been writing about it. Everything."
Lena sat on the porch steps. "I think that's good."
"I keep wondering what would've happened if things had gone differently," Clara said, flipping the page. "If none of this had happened. But then I realize... we wouldn't be here. I wouldn't have learned half the things I've learned about myself."
Lena blinked, surprised.
Clara finally met her eyes. "It still hurts. But I think I'm figuring out who I am without needing everything to make sense again."
Something fragile and warm flickered in Lena's chest. "Can I... read some of it? When you're ready?"
Clara gave a small nod. "Maybe. One day."
They sat in silence as the wind stirred the trees, not healed, not whole—but maybe, just maybe, on the path toward something new.
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