The week passed without incident—no unexpected confrontations, no painful confessions. Just quiet. And in that quiet, Lena began to notice the things she hadn't before: the subtle way Clara hummed when she cooked, the way Jace always waited for her to speak first when something weighed on her mind, and how sunlight made even the old, worn parts of the house feel alive again.
There was a new rhythm to their lives. Not perfect, not free from tension—but real. Lena welcomed the silence now. It was no longer heavy with things left unsaid, but filled with possibilities, with space for growth.
One evening, Clara was curled up on the couch with a sketchpad in her lap, drawing—something Lena hadn't seen her do in months. Lena watched her for a moment before sitting nearby.
"That new?" she asked gently.
Clara nodded, keeping her eyes on the page. "I stopped after everything happened. I didn't think I could make anything that wasn't angry or sad." She paused, tapping the pencil against the edge. "But today, I just wanted to draw something... still."
Lena smiled, warmth blooming in her chest. "What is it?"
Clara turned the pad slightly. It was a simple sketch of a tree, sunlight streaming through its branches, leaves caught mid-fall. Gentle. Peaceful.
"It's beautiful," Lena said.
Clara shrugged, but there was pride in her expression. "It felt right."
Later, Jace surprised Lena with a small notebook. Inside, on the first page, he'd written: For the days you forget how far you've come.
She ran her fingers over the words, her throat tightening. "You always know the right thing to do."
He smiled, pulling her into a quiet hug. "No. But I know how to try."
That night, Lena stood at the window, staring out at the stars. The weight hadn't disappeared—it still lingered in quiet corners of her heart. But it didn't paralyze her anymore. She was learning to live with it, to make space for joy beside the grief.
Some wounds didn't close cleanly. But that didn't mean you stopped walking.
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