A telegram cut through the gray dawn,
its words cold and final:
"Your mother passed away peacefully. Funeral tomorrow."
Elias stared—numb.
The rift with his mother—
a wound born from poems and defiance—
split open again, raw
as the day he walked away
without her blessing.
He collapsed to the floor,
the paper clenched in his trembling hand,
grief a tide that broke his ribs
from the inside.
Celeste found him there,
crumpled beneath the weight of silence.
She sank beside him,
gathering him into her arms.
"I'm so sorry,"
she whispered,
her voice heavy with sorrow.
"She never understood,"
he sobbed,
each breath breaking
like a brittle page.
"I just wanted her to be proud."
"She loved you,"
Celeste murmured,
stroking his hair,
"She did… in her way."
The funeral unfolded beside the sea,
the wind weaving salt and soil
into the open grave.
Elias stood at its edge,
his oxygen tank wheezing behind him,
each breath a battle
beneath the weight of memory.
The priest spoke
of peace,
of forgiveness,
of things that mattered too late.
In Elias's coat pocket,
a letter—
his mother's final words,
still sealed,
still burning.
Back home,
they sat by the window.
Outside,
the sea roared like a witness.
With hands that trembled,
Elias unfolded the note.
My dearest Elias,
I was wrong to push you.
I did not know how to love what I didn't understand.
But your poetry… it is a gift.
I have read your book.
And I am proud.
Forgive me.
—Mother.
The ink blurred
as his tears fell—
not in anger,
but release.
Celeste reached for his hand,
and he let her hold it,
let the grief flow through their joined silence.
They did not speak.
They only watched the sea.
Two hands entwined
beneath a sky heavy with ghosts,
letting sorrow settle
where words could not.