No flowers for the dead - Chapter 58: Chapter 58
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The idea wasn’t grand at first.
It started with a letter—one Rae found in a sealed envelope tucked into the lining of an old leather briefcase Elias used to carry everywhere. The handwriting was unmistakably his. The date on it? Two weeks before his death.
It wasn’t addressed to her.
It was addressed to all three of them.
“If you’re reading this,” it began, “then I’m already gone. And if the three of you are reading it together… then maybe some part of me still got it right.”
“I was never a good man. But I hoped I could at least be remembered by good women.”
There was more—regret, riddled in between pride and confession. Apologies not spoken, but implied. Hopes not fulfilled, but passed on.
And at the end, a request:
“There’s land. It’s quiet. Untouched. Meant to be my retreat, but I never had the time. Use it. Not for a monument. Not for me. For something real. Something that grows.”
⸻
Three months later, they stood at the edge of that land—an expanse of wild hillside, wind-blown and open to the sky.
Elara brought the first sketches.
Rae brought the permits.
Alina brought the name.
They called it The Grove.
⸻
It would not be a resort.
Not a museum.
Not even a business.
It would be a place where women came to start over.
Or start at all.
The Grove would house a creative retreat, a sanctuary, a forge and greenhouse and library. Not fancy. Not corporate. Just honest.
The kind of place Elias never would’ve built.
But maybe… somewhere deep down, hoped would exist.
They funded it quietly. Not with splashy announcements, but quiet investments. Friends helped. People who believed in the story after the story.
There was resistance, of course. There always was.
But this time, they weren’t silenced. This time, they stood together—not bound by grief, but by choice.
⸻
On opening day, the sun was golden through the trees.
A handful of women arrived carrying more questions than answers. Some came with children. Some came alone. Some just stood in the garden and breathed like it was the first time they’d been able to.
Rae watched from the hill, arms crossed, eyes soft.
Elara stood beside her, hands dirty with soil.
Alina sat on a bench, notebook open, pen poised but unmoving.
They didn’t say much.
They didn’t need to.
This—this—was the inheritance no one could steal.
Not money. Not empire.
Just space.
And possibility.
⸻
Later that evening, as dusk folded into blue, Rae walked the perimeter of the Grove. She stopped by a plaque they had agreed to install—not in marble, but simple stone, set beneath an old tree.
It read:
But life for the living.
And room for what grows next.
She ran her fingers across the engraving, then turned back toward the lights of the lodge, where laughter was already beginning to ripple.
And for the first time since Elias died, Rae smiled without apology.
It started with a letter—one Rae found in a sealed envelope tucked into the lining of an old leather briefcase Elias used to carry everywhere. The handwriting was unmistakably his. The date on it? Two weeks before his death.
It wasn’t addressed to her.
It was addressed to all three of them.
“If you’re reading this,” it began, “then I’m already gone. And if the three of you are reading it together… then maybe some part of me still got it right.”
“I was never a good man. But I hoped I could at least be remembered by good women.”
There was more—regret, riddled in between pride and confession. Apologies not spoken, but implied. Hopes not fulfilled, but passed on.
And at the end, a request:
“There’s land. It’s quiet. Untouched. Meant to be my retreat, but I never had the time. Use it. Not for a monument. Not for me. For something real. Something that grows.”
⸻
Three months later, they stood at the edge of that land—an expanse of wild hillside, wind-blown and open to the sky.
Elara brought the first sketches.
Rae brought the permits.
Alina brought the name.
They called it The Grove.
⸻
It would not be a resort.
Not a museum.
Not even a business.
It would be a place where women came to start over.
Or start at all.
The Grove would house a creative retreat, a sanctuary, a forge and greenhouse and library. Not fancy. Not corporate. Just honest.
The kind of place Elias never would’ve built.
But maybe… somewhere deep down, hoped would exist.
They funded it quietly. Not with splashy announcements, but quiet investments. Friends helped. People who believed in the story after the story.
There was resistance, of course. There always was.
But this time, they weren’t silenced. This time, they stood together—not bound by grief, but by choice.
⸻
On opening day, the sun was golden through the trees.
A handful of women arrived carrying more questions than answers. Some came with children. Some came alone. Some just stood in the garden and breathed like it was the first time they’d been able to.
Rae watched from the hill, arms crossed, eyes soft.
Elara stood beside her, hands dirty with soil.
Alina sat on a bench, notebook open, pen poised but unmoving.
They didn’t say much.
They didn’t need to.
This—this—was the inheritance no one could steal.
Not money. Not empire.
Just space.
And possibility.
⸻
Later that evening, as dusk folded into blue, Rae walked the perimeter of the Grove. She stopped by a plaque they had agreed to install—not in marble, but simple stone, set beneath an old tree.
It read:
But life for the living.
And room for what grows next.
She ran her fingers across the engraving, then turned back toward the lights of the lodge, where laughter was already beginning to ripple.
And for the first time since Elias died, Rae smiled without apology.
End of No flowers for the dead Chapter 58. Continue reading Chapter 59 or return to No flowers for the dead book page.