When the Clifford family reached home, the house felt hollow.
Everything was just as they had left it—coats still on the rack, teacups in the sink, a scarf Ian had once worn draped over the back of a chair.
But the silence was different now.
It wasn't cold. It was full. Full of words, and music, and footsteps that would never echo again but would never truly fade.
Elina carried the canvas bag to Ian's old room.
She sat on the edge of his bed, trembling fingers unzipping it, not sure if she was ready.
Inside were only a few things.
A folded scarf. A photo of Aria and Theo asleep on his lap. A small wooden carving of a tree. On the bottom, Ian had written:
"This is the tree I saw when I first felt like I could stay."
And beneath it all—his notebook.
Elina held it in both hands, staring at the worn leather cover. She had seen him scribble in it every morning, every night. She had wondered what he was writing. Now she would know.
She opened it.
Inside were no grand declarations. No sweeping poetry.
Just… Ian.
August 12
Mira made tea that smelled like summer. Theo buried a caterpillar and gave it a name. Aria said I look like a prince when I smile. I don't believe her, but I smiled anyway.
August 18
I helped Noah fix the fence. I only managed two nails before my chest hurt, but he said it was more than enough. I don't know if I've ever heard that before—"more than enough."
August 24
Dreamt I was running again. No pain. Just wind and trees and the sound of Elina calling my name. She didn't sound tired. She sounded young.
September 3
James watched me from the porch. Didn't say a word. But he watched me. I think that was the loudest thing he's ever done.
September 10
Alisha handed me a note. She still writes like she's arguing with the paper. But the words were kind. I kept it. Forgiveness is heavy and light at the same time.
September 20
Today I taught Aria how to tie a ribbon. She tied one around my wrist and said it was magic. I believe her.
October 5
I know I don't have forever. But I have this. This moment. This home. This evening light. And I think… maybe that's the whole point.
Elina's tears fell silently onto the page.
She turned the last few entries slowly. Each one smaller, shakier.
October 25
My hands shake too much now. Writing hurts. Breathing too. But I'm not afraid. I want them to know that. I'm not afraid.
October 27
Please tell them I was loved.
Elina closed the notebook slowly, pressing it to her chest. Her whole body shook, but there was no sound—just the silent ache of a mother holding her child one last time.
James sat beside her and placed his hand on hers.
They didn't speak.
They didn't need to.
Later, Elina placed Ian's notebook into a drawer by the window, beside the carving, the ribbon, and a candle that hadn't been lit in years.
The light poured through the glass and fell gently across the pages.
Outside, the wind rustled the trees.
And somewhere deep in the air, almost like breath—
He stayed.