No flowers for the dead - Chapter 54: Chapter 54

The first meeting with the writers’ room took place in a quiet villa in Lake Como—neutral ground, far from the press, far from the ghosts.
There were eight people in the room. And three whose presence didn’t need introducing.
Alina sat nearest the window, her annotated memoir open beside her. Elara flanked her, fingers wrapped around a ceramic espresso mug, visibly tense. Rae leaned against the marble mantel, arms crossed—not defensive, but alert.
The head writer, a woman in her early fifties with eyes sharp enough to cut through flattery, started simply:
“Thank you for trusting us. What we want is clarity—what’s sacred, what’s flexible, and what is absolutely off-limits.”
It sounded respectful. Almost reverent.
But it was a scalpel.
And they all felt the cut.
⸻
The first week was gentle—character sketches, outlines, tone boards. The writers handled it all with care.
Until one question changed the room:
“When did each of you first realize Elias was… yours?”
Elara’s breath caught.
Rae looked away.
Only Alina answered, her voice soft. “I don’t think I ever believed he truly belonged to anyone. But he chose us. And we chose him back. Over and over.”
Silence stretched.
Then the rewrites began.
⸻
Each woman was asked to review early script drafts.
In one scene, Elias holds Elara’s trembling hand on a balcony after the loss of their first company investor.
Elara frowned. “That didn’t happen.”
“It’s metaphor,” the writer explained. “We wanted to show emotional intimacy.”
“But we had emotional intimacy,” Elara said. “You don’t have to make it up.”
In another draft, Alina was reduced to letters, soft voiceovers, and poetic longing.
She scrawled across the margin:
“I lived this. I bled for him. I’m not just nostalgia.”
And in Rae’s case—
They painted her as too angry.
Too cold.
Too strong.
As though a woman couldn’t be shattered and still survive.
⸻
One evening, the three of them sat on the terrace, each with a red-inked copy of the latest script pages.
“You know what this feels like?” Rae asked. “Like watching someone walk through your memory with muddy shoes.”
Alina half-laughed. “But we let them in.”
“Doesn’t mean they know where not to step,” Elara muttered.
They were all tired.
Not just from the work—but from remembering.
⸻
The next day, they met with the head writer again.
“We’ll keep going,” Alina said. “But we’re telling the truth. Even when it’s ugly.”
Rae nodded. “Even when it makes him look flawed.”
Elara’s voice was low, but steady. “Because love is flawed. That’s what makes it real.”
The writer set her pen down. “Then we’ll write it that way.”