No flowers for the dead - Chapter 39: Chapter 39
You are reading No flowers for the dead, Chapter 39: Chapter 39. Read more chapters of No flowers for the dead.
The reply came three days later.
It wasn’t sent to Alina’s address.
It appeared in the inbox linked to — an anonymous submission, unsigned. Just a few lines, stark against the white screen.
You don’t know me, but I read your post.
I’ve read every one, actually.
I didn’t know why I kept coming back.
Now I do.
My name is Rae. And I don’t know how to belong to this story.
But I want to try.
Elara read it once. Then again.
Then printed it out and walked it across the city to her mother.
They sat together in the fading afternoon light, the letter between them like something fragile and sacred.
“She wrote,” Elara said softly.
Alina nodded, her eyes scanning the page. “She wrote.”
⸻
The invitation came next.
Not formal. Not dramatic.
Just an email with a quiet offer:
There’s a café off Garden Street. Neutral ground. No expectations. I’ll be there Tuesday, 5pm.
Rae.
⸻
Elara was already seated when Rae walked in.
She didn’t need to guess.
She knew.
The resemblance was like a secret only time had kept hidden.
Rae was taller. Her skin deeper, hair curled tightly at her shoulders.
But her eyes… those eyes were Elias’s—sharp, curious, always asking a question even when her mouth stayed closed.
Elara stood.
They didn’t hug.
Not yet.
Just stared at each other like mirrors bent slightly in opposite directions.
“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” Elara said.
“I almost didn’t,” Rae replied.
“But you did.”
Rae smiled, small and cautious. “Yeah. I did.”
⸻
They talked for two hours.
Not about their father—not at first.
They talked about music. About the smell of old bookstores. About the weird comfort of thunderstorms and what cities feel like when you’re heartbroken in them.
And somewhere in the middle of their second coffee, Rae asked:
“Did he ever mention me?”
Elara didn’t lie.
“No. But I don’t think that means he didn’t think of you.”
Rae’s jaw tightened.
“I used to imagine him. What kind of man he might be. Then I found your blog… and I hated you a little, if I’m honest. For having what I didn’t.”
Elara reached across the table and, gently, said:
“I don’t have more of him than you do. Just… different memories.”
⸻
When they stood to leave, Rae hesitated.
Then pulled something from her bag.
A photograph. Faded, frayed. A woman in her twenties—young, tired, beautiful—holding a baby with those same sharp eyes.
“My mother,” Rae said. “She died when I was twelve. She never said much about him, just that he was powerful. And gone.”
Elara took the photo carefully.
“I think she gave you more than she realized.”
“Yeah?”
“She gave you yourself.”
⸻
They parted with a soft smile, not a goodbye.
And that night, Elara uploaded a new post:
Sometimes family arrives late.
Sometimes love shows up after the funeral.
But when it does, you open the door.
Even if your hands are still shaking.
It wasn’t sent to Alina’s address.
It appeared in the inbox linked to — an anonymous submission, unsigned. Just a few lines, stark against the white screen.
You don’t know me, but I read your post.
I’ve read every one, actually.
I didn’t know why I kept coming back.
Now I do.
My name is Rae. And I don’t know how to belong to this story.
But I want to try.
Elara read it once. Then again.
Then printed it out and walked it across the city to her mother.
They sat together in the fading afternoon light, the letter between them like something fragile and sacred.
“She wrote,” Elara said softly.
Alina nodded, her eyes scanning the page. “She wrote.”
⸻
The invitation came next.
Not formal. Not dramatic.
Just an email with a quiet offer:
There’s a café off Garden Street. Neutral ground. No expectations. I’ll be there Tuesday, 5pm.
Rae.
⸻
Elara was already seated when Rae walked in.
She didn’t need to guess.
She knew.
The resemblance was like a secret only time had kept hidden.
Rae was taller. Her skin deeper, hair curled tightly at her shoulders.
But her eyes… those eyes were Elias’s—sharp, curious, always asking a question even when her mouth stayed closed.
Elara stood.
They didn’t hug.
Not yet.
Just stared at each other like mirrors bent slightly in opposite directions.
“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” Elara said.
“I almost didn’t,” Rae replied.
“But you did.”
Rae smiled, small and cautious. “Yeah. I did.”
⸻
They talked for two hours.
Not about their father—not at first.
They talked about music. About the smell of old bookstores. About the weird comfort of thunderstorms and what cities feel like when you’re heartbroken in them.
And somewhere in the middle of their second coffee, Rae asked:
“Did he ever mention me?”
Elara didn’t lie.
“No. But I don’t think that means he didn’t think of you.”
Rae’s jaw tightened.
“I used to imagine him. What kind of man he might be. Then I found your blog… and I hated you a little, if I’m honest. For having what I didn’t.”
Elara reached across the table and, gently, said:
“I don’t have more of him than you do. Just… different memories.”
⸻
When they stood to leave, Rae hesitated.
Then pulled something from her bag.
A photograph. Faded, frayed. A woman in her twenties—young, tired, beautiful—holding a baby with those same sharp eyes.
“My mother,” Rae said. “She died when I was twelve. She never said much about him, just that he was powerful. And gone.”
Elara took the photo carefully.
“I think she gave you more than she realized.”
“Yeah?”
“She gave you yourself.”
⸻
They parted with a soft smile, not a goodbye.
And that night, Elara uploaded a new post:
Sometimes family arrives late.
Sometimes love shows up after the funeral.
But when it does, you open the door.
Even if your hands are still shaking.
End of No flowers for the dead Chapter 39. Continue reading Chapter 40 or return to No flowers for the dead book page.