The Weight of Grief

The days following Emily's death were marked by a deep, unshakable sadness that permeated every corner of the house. Nora and her mother moved through their days in a state of heavy silence, their hearts burdened by the loss of their beloved daughter and sister.

Nora's mother, Evelyn, had retreated into a shell of her former self. She spent her days in Emily's room, surrounded by the child's belongings. The room was filled with remnants of a life that had been so abruptly extinguished stuffed animals, drawings, and toys that now stood as haunting reminders of the joy that had once been. Helena rarely left the room, and when she did, it was only to wander through the house in a dazed, almost trance like state.

Meals were neglected, Evelyn refused to eat, her appetite extinguished by grief. Nora tried to coax her into eating, but her mother's response was always the same a shake of the head, a murmured apology, and a return to the solitude of Emily's room. It was as if the act of eating was a betrayal of her sorrow, a way of moving on from a loss that felt insurmountable.

Nora, on the other hand, returned to work at the Empire Hotel, though her heart was heavy with grief. The hotel, with its pristine hallways and bustling activity, felt like a world apart from the anguish she was experiencing at home. She threw herself into her tasks, using the work as a distraction from the sorrow that threatened to consume her. Each shift was a struggle to maintain focus, her mind often wandering back to Emily and the emptiness that had replaced her vibrant presence.

Her colleagues noticed the change in her demeanor. The once lively Nora was now quiet and withdrawn, her smiles rare and her laughter even rarer. She moved through her tasks with a mechanical efficiency, her heart no longer in the work but in the ache of her personal loss.