No flowers for the dead - Chapter 28: Chapter 28
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They didn’t bring anything back from the estate. No relics. No paintings. No dusty books with the family crest etched in leather.
But something had shifted.
The house they lived in—the one with the creaky floors and too many windows—felt even more like a haven now.
Because it had been chosen. Not inherited. Not passed down like a curse.
It was theirs.
⸻
Elara was sitting on the porch steps when they returned, her legs swinging as she hummed a tune she made up herself.
When she saw them, she lit up.
Alina dropped her bag and ran to scoop her up. Elias stood back for a moment, watching them. That smile. That mess of tangled hair. That laughter he could never bottle or buy.
It was all he needed.
⸻
Later that night, after Elara had fallen asleep curled between them like she used to as a baby, Alina whispered:
“Would you ever want to tell her everything?”
Elias was quiet.
Then: “Only if she asks. And only when she’s ready.”
Alina nodded. “You’d tell her the truth?”
“Yes,” he said. “All of it. But I’d start with you.”
She smiled, eyes full of sleep and something softer.
“Why me?”
“Because you’re where the story really begins.”
⸻
As the months passed, so did the seasons.
Elara started school. She hated the first week—missed home, missed the rhythm they had. But on Friday, she came home with a gold star and a new best friend named Jun.
Alina began speaking at libraries and small-town festivals, her stories now reaching mothers and daughters, not executives and critics.
Elias began restoring old homes for families who couldn’t afford architects. No news outlets knew. No one documented it. But he built walls and roofs and ran his hands over wood beams the way someone else might pray.
He was still building.
Just not empires anymore.
Homes.
⸻
One evening, Elara came home with a drawing.
It was a castle.
But it wasn’t made of stone. It was a treehouse, perched high above the clouds, with flowers blooming from its branches and a swing tied to one limb.
Alina looked at the signature: “For Daddy. So he knows not all castles are scary.”
Elias didn’t cry in front of her.
He waited until later. When she was asleep. When Alina had curled beside him and whispered, “She’s so much like you.”
“No,” he whispered back. “She’s like what I hoped I could be.”
⸻
And in the months that followed, they built the treehouse.
Piece by piece. Board by board.
Together.
No architects. No blueprints.
Just Elias’s hands, Alina’s paintbrush, and Elara’s voice echoing through the branches like music that never needed an ending.
But something had shifted.
The house they lived in—the one with the creaky floors and too many windows—felt even more like a haven now.
Because it had been chosen. Not inherited. Not passed down like a curse.
It was theirs.
⸻
Elara was sitting on the porch steps when they returned, her legs swinging as she hummed a tune she made up herself.
When she saw them, she lit up.
Alina dropped her bag and ran to scoop her up. Elias stood back for a moment, watching them. That smile. That mess of tangled hair. That laughter he could never bottle or buy.
It was all he needed.
⸻
Later that night, after Elara had fallen asleep curled between them like she used to as a baby, Alina whispered:
“Would you ever want to tell her everything?”
Elias was quiet.
Then: “Only if she asks. And only when she’s ready.”
Alina nodded. “You’d tell her the truth?”
“Yes,” he said. “All of it. But I’d start with you.”
She smiled, eyes full of sleep and something softer.
“Why me?”
“Because you’re where the story really begins.”
⸻
As the months passed, so did the seasons.
Elara started school. She hated the first week—missed home, missed the rhythm they had. But on Friday, she came home with a gold star and a new best friend named Jun.
Alina began speaking at libraries and small-town festivals, her stories now reaching mothers and daughters, not executives and critics.
Elias began restoring old homes for families who couldn’t afford architects. No news outlets knew. No one documented it. But he built walls and roofs and ran his hands over wood beams the way someone else might pray.
He was still building.
Just not empires anymore.
Homes.
⸻
One evening, Elara came home with a drawing.
It was a castle.
But it wasn’t made of stone. It was a treehouse, perched high above the clouds, with flowers blooming from its branches and a swing tied to one limb.
Alina looked at the signature: “For Daddy. So he knows not all castles are scary.”
Elias didn’t cry in front of her.
He waited until later. When she was asleep. When Alina had curled beside him and whispered, “She’s so much like you.”
“No,” he whispered back. “She’s like what I hoped I could be.”
⸻
And in the months that followed, they built the treehouse.
Piece by piece. Board by board.
Together.
No architects. No blueprints.
Just Elias’s hands, Alina’s paintbrush, and Elara’s voice echoing through the branches like music that never needed an ending.
End of No flowers for the dead Chapter 28. Continue reading Chapter 29 or return to No flowers for the dead book page.