No flowers for the dead - Chapter 22: Chapter 22
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The morning was still when she said it.
No chaos.
No shadows.
Just the soft hum of breath and the way sunlight curled through the linen curtains.
“I’m ready for forever,” Alina had whispered, her fingers resting on Elias’s bare chest like a vow.
For a long time, he didn’t speak. Not because he doubted her. But because something in him had never dared to believe he’d get this far.
They were both still learning how to live without the war.
⸻
Later that morning, they sat at the table Elias had carved from reclaimed stone—her with tea, him with strong black coffee. A newspaper lay untouched. The world was still turning. But for once, it could do so without their attention.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, voice low.
Alina raised a brow. “Dangerous words from you.”
He smiled faintly. “We never had a real wedding.”
She blinked.
“No press. No spectacle,” he added quickly. “Just us. Somewhere that never had our names carved into it.”
Alina set her tea down.
“You want to start clean?”
He nodded. “If we’re going to build a life… I want to build it from our beginning, not our wreckage.”
Alina leaned forward, the edge of a smile curling into something deep, something reverent.
“Then let’s disappear,” she said.
⸻
They chose the mountains. Quiet, windswept, distant. No towers, no paparazzi, no ghosts.
Just a chapel older than memory, tucked between silver trees and stone.
The officiant was a woman who didn’t ask for last names.
The rings were simple. Hers was gold. His was black.
And their vows were not traditional—they were brutal, honest, imperfect.
“I vow to tell you the truth, even when it’s easier to lie.”
“I vow to let you in, even when it hurts.”
“I vow to never forget how we bled to get here.”
“I vow to love you, even in silence.”
There were no flowers.
Just two people, raw and whole, standing inside a promise they never thought they’d get to make.
⸻
Afterward, they didn’t celebrate with champagne or toasts.
They celebrated with quiet.
With breath.
With the feeling of skin against skin in a room where no one knew their names.
⸻
In the days that followed, Alina started to write.
Not speeches. Not business plans.
But stories—fiction. Ones where girls were never just good, and boys were never just cold. Where love didn’t save them, but gave them space to save themselves.
Elias read every word.
And for the first time, his empire wasn’t a company.
It was her.
⸻
And when they returned to the city weeks later—no press releases, no statements—they were different.
Not because anything had changed on paper.
But because something inside them had finally settled.
Peace was not absence.
It was presence.
And every day they chose each other, again and again, was a revolution the world could never touch.
No chaos.
No shadows.
Just the soft hum of breath and the way sunlight curled through the linen curtains.
“I’m ready for forever,” Alina had whispered, her fingers resting on Elias’s bare chest like a vow.
For a long time, he didn’t speak. Not because he doubted her. But because something in him had never dared to believe he’d get this far.
They were both still learning how to live without the war.
⸻
Later that morning, they sat at the table Elias had carved from reclaimed stone—her with tea, him with strong black coffee. A newspaper lay untouched. The world was still turning. But for once, it could do so without their attention.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, voice low.
Alina raised a brow. “Dangerous words from you.”
He smiled faintly. “We never had a real wedding.”
She blinked.
“No press. No spectacle,” he added quickly. “Just us. Somewhere that never had our names carved into it.”
Alina set her tea down.
“You want to start clean?”
He nodded. “If we’re going to build a life… I want to build it from our beginning, not our wreckage.”
Alina leaned forward, the edge of a smile curling into something deep, something reverent.
“Then let’s disappear,” she said.
⸻
They chose the mountains. Quiet, windswept, distant. No towers, no paparazzi, no ghosts.
Just a chapel older than memory, tucked between silver trees and stone.
The officiant was a woman who didn’t ask for last names.
The rings were simple. Hers was gold. His was black.
And their vows were not traditional—they were brutal, honest, imperfect.
“I vow to tell you the truth, even when it’s easier to lie.”
“I vow to let you in, even when it hurts.”
“I vow to never forget how we bled to get here.”
“I vow to love you, even in silence.”
There were no flowers.
Just two people, raw and whole, standing inside a promise they never thought they’d get to make.
⸻
Afterward, they didn’t celebrate with champagne or toasts.
They celebrated with quiet.
With breath.
With the feeling of skin against skin in a room where no one knew their names.
⸻
In the days that followed, Alina started to write.
Not speeches. Not business plans.
But stories—fiction. Ones where girls were never just good, and boys were never just cold. Where love didn’t save them, but gave them space to save themselves.
Elias read every word.
And for the first time, his empire wasn’t a company.
It was her.
⸻
And when they returned to the city weeks later—no press releases, no statements—they were different.
Not because anything had changed on paper.
But because something inside them had finally settled.
Peace was not absence.
It was presence.
And every day they chose each other, again and again, was a revolution the world could never touch.
End of No flowers for the dead Chapter 22. Continue reading Chapter 23 or return to No flowers for the dead book page.