Page 72 of Knotting on Heaven's Door

I stared at the floor. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

“I’mfine, Mia.”

A beat of silence. She didn’t push—but she didn’t believe me either. I could hear it in her voice.

“I just worry about you,” I said, trying to sound lighter than I felt. “Wanted to check in, see how you were holding up.”

“Ugh,” she groaned. “Barely. I’m pretty sure my body is ninety percent ginger tea and tissue dust right now.”

“I could make you some soup and drop it off?”

“Don’t waste your time. I can’t even hold down herbal tea,” she grumbled. “Went to the doctor this morning. It’s a bug.Probably viral. I’ll live, but I’ll probably miss Monday too.”

“That’s fine,” I said, softer. “Take all the time you need.”

“You’re not just saying that to be polite, right?” she asked, suspicious. “You’re not going to show up at my door with spreadsheets and a thermometer?”

I laughed. “No. I’m not. Promise.”

We talked a little longer—mostly about work, the upcoming Heaven’s Door logistics, whether or not Liam would survive this virus too since he was also sick—and even that felt like a balm. Her voice, strained as it was, still reminded me that not everything in my world was unraveling.

When the call ended, the quiet returned like a punch to the ribs. The kind of quiet that had weight.

I stared at my phone long after the screen went dark, before finally setting it down and curling into my couch.

I nestled into the green sea of pillows I’d painstakingly arranged over the past week—shades of sage and emerald and moss, some velvet, some cotton, some ridiculous and frilly, all carefully placed until they formed my makeshift nest. It should’ve brought comfort.

Instead, I just felt… alone.

I turned on the TV and let the noise wash over me, eyes on the screen but not really seeing. Some romcom played in the background, full of easy smiles and low-stakes tension that always led to a happy ending.

I tried to lose myself in it.

But all I could think about was how I used to believe in happy endings too.

The next morning, Sunday, the wind had teeth.

Not the kind that bit hard, but the kind that whispered a warning against bare arms and summer clothes. The early October chill had finally settled in, threading through the air with purpose. I grabbed my thin black jacket—the one that haddeep pockets and a collar I could bury my chin into—and headed out before I could talk myself out of it.

The flower market sat nestled between two old brick buildings downtown, a stretch of tents and stalls bursting with color. It always smelled of damp earth and blooming things, petals opening against the pull of the season. The vendors knew me by now, the woman with the messy bun and glasses who asked far too many questions about eucalyptus varieties and the symbolism behind white dahlias.

I lingered longer than I needed to.

Let my fingers brush over velvet rose petals and sun-warmed ceramic pots. Let my eyes trace the painted chalkboard signs with looping calligraphy. Let my mind drift in the direction it always did on this day.

Eventually, I picked a bouquet—muted whites and greens, soft freesia, pale ranunculus, and sprigs of rosemary for remembrance. Clean. Classic. Quiet.

The drive to the cemetery was silent. No music, no radio. Just the occasional whoosh of a passing car and the hum of my tires on the road.

I parked near the same old tree, the one that shed gold leaves like confetti this time of year, and walked the winding path until I found him.

Adam de la Vega.

His name was etched in stone, but somehow still echoed in my blood. Eight years, and it still hadn’t dulled. Some wounds just grew around you. Never healed—just coexisted.

I crouched and placed the flowers at the base of the grave, brushing away a leaf that had landed crooked on the marble.

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