I kept staring at the trinket.
Why the hell would St. John give me his chain?
I didn't need it.
He did.
It was my birthday, wasn't it?
I hadn't even realized.
"So much for a sweet sixteen," I mumbled.
This couldn't possibly get any worse.
I should've known better than to think that.
The door burst open.
Black, exorbitant heels — diamonds glinting at the toes — clicked onto the tiles like they owned the place.
I groaned and sank deeper into the thin hospital bedding.
Armani dress. Fur coat balanced perfectly over one shoulder. Durkin handbag. Giant Gucci sunglasses perched on her nose like a crown.
And the attitude? Even louder than the outfit.
I was in no mood for that woman.
"Marieeee…" she drawled like I was a misbehaving poodle.
"Aunt Laila," I sighed. A nurse scrambled over and helped me sit up straighter.
Aunt Laila swept in and wrapped me in an awkwardly tight hug that smelled like expensive perfume and sympathy.
"Oh, you look awful," she chirped, releasing me like I might wrinkle her sleeve. Then she plopped into the chair beside my bed like it was a throne.
"Don't worry, darling. I'm here to save you from this hell cell," she said, tilting her head like she was auditioning for a hero's entrance.
"How thoughtful," I muttered. "Weren't you in Asia?"
She straightened, eyes flicking somewhere far away, then back to me. "I flew out the moment I heard. Couldn't stay another day knowing you were here…" Her voice softened just enough to feel almost real, like sadness had sneaked past all the layers she carefully polished over the years.
I raised an eyebrow. "Almost real, huh? That's… comforting."
She smirked, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Comfort is overrated. But seeing you… alive, that's something."
I leaned back against the pillows, crossing my arms. "You really think a cape and a smile can fix this?"
She laughed, sharp and theatrical, then softened again. "Not fix. Rescue. There's a difference."
Don't get me wrong, I love her. I really do. But sometimes she's too much—like a hurricane in designer.
I shook my head. "Too much? You're… exhausting."
She tilted her head, mock offended. "Exhausting? Darling, I am everything."
I studied her carefully, biting the inside of my cheek, letting the silence stretch. And finally, the question slipped out before I could stop it:
"Why did you really come?"
For a moment, neither of us said anything.
And that silence?
It wasn't comforting.
"Umm… listen," she began, voice thinner than usual.
Her fingers fidgeted with the corner of her handkerchief — not a single diamond in sight.
"Your mom and dad, they…"
She paused, took a shaky breath.
"They didn't make it, Marie."
She said it softly, like saying it louder would make it more real.
A single tear slid beneath her designer sunglasses as she wiped it away with trembling hands.
I felt something clench — deep and hot — behind my ribs.
A hard lump built in my throat like I'd swallowed a brick.
"You can't be serious," I whispered, my voice breaking on a weak, disbelieving laugh.
She took off her glasses and met my eyes.
"I'm so sorry," she breathed — and for the first time in my life, Aunt Laila broke down.
She sank onto the edge of the bed beside me and pulled me into a bear hug, tighter than anything I remembered from childhood.
I didn't fight it.
I buried my face into her fur-lined coat and sobbed — messy, aching, endless sobs — while she gently ran her fingers through my hair, detangling it like she used to when I was five and scared of thunderstorms.
Except this time, the thunder never stopped.
After hours of sobbing uncontrollably, my aunt started to regain composure. She was my dad's youngest sister — sophisticated, super accomplished, the kind of Black woman anyone would be proud of.
The doctor walked in. "I'm sorry, ma'am, you have to sign the… umm…" He glanced at me. "These papers."
My aunt nodded and gave me a small squeeze before following the doctor outside the room. I decided it was time to regain some composure myself and wash my face.
I walked slowly to the bathroom, the IV drip trailing behind me.
Locking eyes with myself in the mirror, I was filled with self-pity. My melanin-rich skin looked pale, my green eyes dulled — maybe I got them from Mom, though people always said they were too striking to be mine. My long black waves hung loose, tangled from the pillow, framing a face I barely recognized. Curves I usually ignored now seemed heavier under the hospital gown.
A knock at the bathroom door broke my thoughts. "Mara?" St. John's voice was soft, careful. "Are you in there? Please come out."
A tear slid down my cheek. I wiped it hastily, trying to steady my voice. When I finally stepped out, he was standing there, amber eyes scanning me.
He took his hand out of his pocket and hesitantly reached out to wipe a stray tear on my cheek, pulling my chin toward him.
I finally looked up at him. He looked at me not with the sympathy or pity I'd been getting all day, but with something rawer—pain, carved deep into his features. Before I could even hold anything in, tears streamed down my face nonstop, and he pulled me into his arms.
His arms closed around me like he'd been holding that breath for days. I didn't hug him back at first; we've never actually got along. Too many arguments, too much pride. He's always been the polished one—expensive watch, calm voice, spotless reputation. And me? A walking storm he never knew how to handle.
"You don't have to hold it in," he murmured against my hair.
That did it. My body gave up pretending. The sob hit harder than I expected, and I clutched at his shirt like it could stop everything from falling apart.
My long black hair stuck to my cheeks, my eyes burned, and I hated how small I felt in that moment. He brushed his thumb under my chin again, and for a second, those stupid eyes of mine caught his—like even grief had a color it couldn't wash out.
"Breathe, Mara," he whispered, his voice low and steady. "Just breathe."
I did—slowly, until my chest ached less. The room was too quiet, the kind that makes you hear your own heartbeat. He helped me to the bed, tugged the blanket over my shoulders, and brushed a few strands of hair out of my face.
"Close your eyes," he said softly. "You need to rest."
"I can't," I mumbled, though my eyelids were already heavy.
"You can," he whispered, almost like a promise. "I've got you."
And maybe it was the exhaustion, or maybe I just wanted to believe him for once—but I did. The world blurred, his hand still resting in my hair as everything went dark.
Days flew by and I was finally discharged.
Eventually we had to put them to rest. So we did.
The sky was the kind of grey that didn't even try to pretend it was anything else.
It wasn't weeping. It wasn't dramatic.
Just… indifferent.
Which felt cruel, somehow.
I stood in front of two coffins — glossy, expensive, cold — wearing a black dress that probably cost more than a semester of college.
Aunt Laila insisted. Something about appearances.
I hadn't spoken much since the hospital. Couldn't really.
The sobs had dried up. The weight hadn't.
People I didn't recognize approached in waves, offering soft condolences with faces that meant nothing.
"Such a tragedy…"
"They were so young…"
"And you, poor girl. You're so strong…"
Strong.
If they only knew.
My hands were locked around St. John's — strangely — the only familiar thing in this sea of strangers. He stood stiff beside me, in a perfectly tailored black suit, his usual smirk gone. Just a clenched jaw and amber eyes that hadn't left me since I stepped out of the car.
He squeezed my hand once, like a heartbeat. I didn't squeeze back.
The priest droned on.
Scripture. Hope. Resurrection.
Words that sounded like foam — soft and shapeless.
Behind my sunglasses, my eyes flicked over the crowd. People sniffled, held tissues. Some genuinely cried. Others definitely just showed up for networking. One woman took a selfie with a floral arrangement before realizing I was watching.
A muscle in my cheek twitched.
That's when I felt it.
A chill. Crawling up my spine like fingers made of fog.
The hair on my arms stood on end.
I turned.
Across the cemetery lawn, just beyond the rows of chairs, stood a man. Alone.
Leaning casually against a tree. Dressed in black like the rest of us — but not mourning.
He wasn't crying.
Wasn't even pretending.
He smiled.
Not a comforting smile.
Not sad. Not polite.
Knowing.
Like he was the only one at the funeral who knew exactly what had died… and what had just woken up.
I could not see the man's face, but I knew he was smiling.
Something about the tilt of his head, the way he stood too still — like a shadow that forgot to move with the light.
My fingers slipped out of St. John's before I realized I was doing it.
I started walking. Slow, unblinking steps across the grass. The mourners blurred around me like moving fog. Their whispers dulled to a soft hum behind my ears.
"Mara?" St. John's voice caught up a second later — sharp and low. "Mara, what are you doing?"
He said my name like it might snap me out of something.
It didn't.
Because something was pulling me. Not in my body — in my chest. In my ribs. Like a thread tied tightly between me and that man under the tree. Like I'd walked toward him before in a dream I didn't remember.
I took another step. Then another.
His outline sharpened. Tall. Lean. Almost elegant. But blurred somehow — like he didn't belong in the same focus as everything else. Like the world refused to hold him in definition for long.
I was maybe ten feet away when he finally moved. Just his hand. Lifting lazily in greeting, like we were old friends catching up at brunch.
"Hey!" St. John's voice cut across the air— louder now, angry and scared. "Who the hell is that?" Accent oozing through each word.
I turned to look back at him.
When I turned forward again… the man was gone.
No footsteps. No movement. Just an empty space where the chill still lingered.
Suddenly, a wave of nausea and dizziness hit me so hard my knees buckled. My head would've met the concrete if strong hands hadn't caught me.
"Mara." St. John's voice was sharp, his soft eyes scanning my face with worry etched deep into his features.
I never thought I'd see him this worried about the so-called monster child.
"Look," he murmured, steadying me with careful precision. "You're exhausted. You need rest, okay?"p
I nodded, still too dazed to argue.
He guided me to his car, settling me gently into the passenger seat. Then, with a fleeting glance at my aunt, he slid behind the wheel and drove me home.