No flowers for the dead - Chapter 29: Chapter 29
You are reading No flowers for the dead, Chapter 29: Chapter 29. Read more chapters of No flowers for the dead.
They built the treehouse too high.
That’s what the neighbors said.
But Elara wanted it that way—“so we can touch the sky on cloudy days.”
And Elias, ever her accomplice, had said yes without hesitation.
It took weeks.
They worked in fragments—before dinner, after school, on days when the sun stayed too long and sleep came too late.
Alina painted the floorboards in constellations.
Elias carved her name—Elara—into the center beam.
And Elara added glitter to everything when they weren’t looking.
By the end, it wasn’t just a treehouse.
It was a monument to everything they’d survived.
⸻
They didn’t talk about money anymore.
Not because they didn’t have it. Elias had quietly invested, quietly donated, quietly set up accounts in Elara’s name that would one day make her feel protected, but never burdened.
He had once known the weight of too much.
He was determined she would never wear that crown.
⸻
Sometimes they took trips. Nothing extravagant.
A quiet village in Italy.
A cabin tucked in the Swiss pines.
A dusty town in Spain where Alina taught Elara how to dance barefoot in the street.
Everywhere they went, Elias stayed in the background—watching them, memorizing them, as though some part of him still couldn’t believe they were real.
“Do you miss being feared?” Alina asked once, over wine and grilled peaches on a roof in Lisbon.
“No,” Elias said, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “This is better.”
“Even if no one remembers your name?”
He smiled.
“I’d rather Elara remember my laugh than strangers remember my title.”
⸻
They aged slowly, quietly.
Alina’s hair grew longer. Grey streaked the ends in places she never bothered to dye.
Elias’s hands grew rougher. He started wearing glasses when he read.
Elara grew taller. Freckles bloomed across her nose every spring, and her questions got harder to answer.
But the love? That didn’t age.
It deepened.
It learned when to hold and when to let go.
It became their language—the way Elias kissed Alina’s temple when words failed, the way Alina packed an extra sandwich in Elias’s coat on cold mornings, the way Elara curled between them on the couch like she always had.
⸻
One autumn afternoon, a former associate of Elias’s showed up.
Uninvited. Nervous.
He’d found them through back channels, whispered rumors, long trails that led nowhere until, finally, here.
He didn’t come with threats.
Just… curiosity.
“Do you ever regret it?” the man asked.
Elias stood in the doorway, a mug of tea in his hand, eyes cool and distant.
“Regret what?”
“Leaving the world. The name. Everything.”
Elias glanced over his shoulder—saw Alina laughing with Elara on the floor, the two of them painting pumpkins with glitter.
Then he looked back.
“No,” he said. “But I regret staying in it as long as I did.”
And with that, he closed the door.
That’s what the neighbors said.
But Elara wanted it that way—“so we can touch the sky on cloudy days.”
And Elias, ever her accomplice, had said yes without hesitation.
It took weeks.
They worked in fragments—before dinner, after school, on days when the sun stayed too long and sleep came too late.
Alina painted the floorboards in constellations.
Elias carved her name—Elara—into the center beam.
And Elara added glitter to everything when they weren’t looking.
By the end, it wasn’t just a treehouse.
It was a monument to everything they’d survived.
⸻
They didn’t talk about money anymore.
Not because they didn’t have it. Elias had quietly invested, quietly donated, quietly set up accounts in Elara’s name that would one day make her feel protected, but never burdened.
He had once known the weight of too much.
He was determined she would never wear that crown.
⸻
Sometimes they took trips. Nothing extravagant.
A quiet village in Italy.
A cabin tucked in the Swiss pines.
A dusty town in Spain where Alina taught Elara how to dance barefoot in the street.
Everywhere they went, Elias stayed in the background—watching them, memorizing them, as though some part of him still couldn’t believe they were real.
“Do you miss being feared?” Alina asked once, over wine and grilled peaches on a roof in Lisbon.
“No,” Elias said, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “This is better.”
“Even if no one remembers your name?”
He smiled.
“I’d rather Elara remember my laugh than strangers remember my title.”
⸻
They aged slowly, quietly.
Alina’s hair grew longer. Grey streaked the ends in places she never bothered to dye.
Elias’s hands grew rougher. He started wearing glasses when he read.
Elara grew taller. Freckles bloomed across her nose every spring, and her questions got harder to answer.
But the love? That didn’t age.
It deepened.
It learned when to hold and when to let go.
It became their language—the way Elias kissed Alina’s temple when words failed, the way Alina packed an extra sandwich in Elias’s coat on cold mornings, the way Elara curled between them on the couch like she always had.
⸻
One autumn afternoon, a former associate of Elias’s showed up.
Uninvited. Nervous.
He’d found them through back channels, whispered rumors, long trails that led nowhere until, finally, here.
He didn’t come with threats.
Just… curiosity.
“Do you ever regret it?” the man asked.
Elias stood in the doorway, a mug of tea in his hand, eyes cool and distant.
“Regret what?”
“Leaving the world. The name. Everything.”
Elias glanced over his shoulder—saw Alina laughing with Elara on the floor, the two of them painting pumpkins with glitter.
Then he looked back.
“No,” he said. “But I regret staying in it as long as I did.”
And with that, he closed the door.
End of No flowers for the dead Chapter 29. Continue reading Chapter 30 or return to No flowers for the dead book page.