14. The weight of her absence

After what felt like an eternity, the train finally pulled into the station with a long, squealing screech. The whistle sounded once more, cutting through the cool evening air and jolting Shanane from her daze. Shanane blinked, her breath catching in her chest as she realized they'd reached her destination. 

Her fingers tightened around the worn strap of her bag. The weight of the news that had brought her here pressed down on her shoulders like an invisible burden. She sat frozen for a moment, watching as the other passengers rose from their seats, laughter and chatter ringing hollow in her ears. Their lives continued uninterrupted, full of plans and destinations, while hers had come crashing down with a single phone call. 

One by one, they filed off the train, their footsteps fading into the quiet. Shanane lingered until she was the last person in the carriage, hesitating before finally standing. Her legs felt unsteady, trembling as if the very act of stepping off this train would force her to confront the reality she so desperately wanted to avoid. 

When her feet touched the platform, she paused, the faint click of her heels against the cobblestones echoing in the stillness. She inhaled deeply, the cool air sharp against her lungs. It smelled the same as she remembered, earthy, tinged with the scent of rain and woodsmoke from distant chimneys. 

The village greeted her like a ghost from her past. It was as though time had stood still in her absence. The cobblestone streets stretched before her, lined with quaint houses whose roofs sagged slightly under the weight of age. The small shops, their shutters closed for the evening, still bore the familiar painted signs she used to read as a child. Even the towering oak tree near the station stood just as it had before, its branches swaying gently in the breeze, whispering secrets to anyone who dared listen. 

But what should have felt comforting only added to her pain. Each detail reminded her of her grandmother, her only family, her anchor. The woman who had once stood at this very platform to welcome her home after long absences. Now there was no one. The thought sent a fresh wave of grief crashing over her, threatening to pull her under. 

Her feet carried her forward almost without her realizing it. With each step, memories surged to the surface. The sound of her grandmother's laugh as they cooked together in the tiny kitchen. The feel of her rough, calloused hands brushing through Shanane's hair. The scent of lavender and mint that always seemed to cling to her clothes. 

The braided hair woman clutched her bag tighter, as if holding onto it might anchor her to the present. But it was no use. The memories came unbidden, vivid and relentless, and with them came the realization that she would never hear that laugh again, never feel those hands, never walk through the door to find her grandmother waiting with a smile. 

The weight of it all nearly brought her to her knees. She stopped in the middle of the road, tears pricking at her eyes. She had promised herself she wouldn't cry, not here, not in front of the village that had always seemed to watch her every move. But the ache in her chest was too much to bear. 

The world around her blurred as tears spilled down her cheeks. She tried to swallow the lump in her throat, but it only grew larger. The cobblestones beneath her feet seemed to shimmer with the glow of lanterns hanging from the shops, casting long, flickering shadows across the road. 

She closed her eyes, trying to gather herself. Her grandmother had always been the strong one, the steady one. Shanane had to be strong now, if not for herself, then for the memory of the woman who had given her everything. 

With a trembling hand, she wiped her face and straightened her back. The path ahead was clear, leading straight to the old cottage she had once called home. But it wasn't home anymore, not without her grandmother. 

The thought made her pause again, her heart hammering in her chest. How could she walk through that door and face the emptiness? How could she step inside and see all the places her grandmother used to be, now filled with silence? 

But she had no choice. This was why she had come to say goodbye, to honor the woman who had been her entire world. Shanane drew in a shaky breath and forced herself to take the first step toward the cottage, her grief trailing behind her like a shadow.

The path to the cottage felt endless, every step heavier than the last, as though the weight of her grief had turned the cobblestones beneath her feet to quicksand. Her grandmother's death left her hollow, carving out a void inside her that she didn't know how to fill. 

When the cottage finally came into view, the sight of it stole the air from her lungs. There it stood, nestled at the edge of the village, just as it had always been. Its familiar stone walls were now cloaked in shadow, the ivy climbing its surface a little thicker, a little wilder. The roof sagged slightly, the years since her last visit evident in its wear. 

But it was the garden that broke her. 

Once a vibrant sanctuary bursting with color, the garden was now a tangled mess of weeds and neglect. The roses her grandmother had so carefully pruned were gone, replaced by thorny vines that crawled unchecked across the ground. The lavender that had once perfumed the air hung limp and brittle, its fragrance a ghost of what it used to be. This was her grandmother's pride and joy, her retreat from the world. Now it was a graveyard of memories, its decay mirroring the gaping loss in Shanane's heart. 

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the gate. The latch stuck for a moment, reluctant to yield, and when it finally gave way, the creak it emitted sounded like a cry of mourning. Shanane stepped through, her feet crunching against the gravel path, the sound deafening in the oppressive silence. 

The door loomed ahead, a dark rectangle that seemed to swallow all light. She stopped before it, her hand hovering over the doorknob as if touching it would make everything real. Her chest heaved with the effort to breathe, her fingers brushing against the cool brass. The last time she had stood here, her grandmother had been on the other side, opening the door with a wide smile and arms outstretched. Now, there was no one to welcome her. 

With a shaky exhale, she turned the knob and pushed the door open. 

The house was cloaked in darkness, the faint scent of lavender and woodsmoke lingering in the air, as if the walls themselves were mourning her grandmother's absence. Shanane hesitated on the threshold, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. Everything looked the same, yet profoundly different. 

The armchair by the fireplace still sat in its familiar corner, the cushion slightly sunken from years of use. The small wooden table where they'd shared countless meals stood exactly where it always had, its surface gleaming faintly in the pale light. The shelves were lined with the same collection of worn books, their spines leaning against one another like old friends. 

But the silence, the silence was unbearable. 

Shanane set her bag down, her movements slow and deliberate, as though any sudden motion might shatter the fragile stillness. She wandered through the room, her hand trailing along the edge of the table, the rough texture of the wood grounding her in the present. The memories came flooding back, each one sharper and more painful than the last. 

Her grandmother's laugh, low and warm, as they played cards by the fire. The gentle hum of her voice as she worked in the garden, singing songs that had been passed down for generations. The way she would pull Shanane close after a long day, her embrace a safe harbor in a stormy world. 

Shanane's steps carried her to the mantle, where a collection of photographs stood in their frames. Her gaze landed on one in particular, a picture of her grandmother holding a young Shanane on her hip, both of them laughing, their faces radiant with joy. Her fingers brushed the glass, and in that moment, the dam holding back her grief broke. 

The first sob tore from her throat, raw and uncontainable. It was followed by another, and then another until the floodgates fully gave way. Shanane sank to her knees, clutching the photograph as though it were the only tether to a world that now felt foreign and desolate. The tears fell hot and fast, carving rivers down her cheeks and pooling on the worn rug beneath her.

She let the grief take her, no longer fighting the wave that had been building since the moment she'd answered the phone. Every memory, every unspoken word, and every regret came crashing down all at once.

__Shanane: "I'm sorry." she whispered into the stillness, her voice breaking. "I should have come sooner. I should have" Her words dissolved into another sob, the weight of her guilt as heavy as her loss.

Minutes passed, maybe hours, before the storm inside her began to calm. Shanane's tears slowed, her breaths coming in shallow, uneven gasps. The room was quiet again, save for the faint creak of the old house settling around her.

Wiping her face with the sleeve of her coat, she forced herself to stand. Her legs were unsteady, her body drained, but she couldn't stay on the floor forever. The photograph trembled in her hand as she placed it back on the mantle, her fingers lingering for a moment before she let it go.

She glanced around the room, her gaze settling on the armchair by the fireplace. For a brief moment, she imagined her grandmother sitting there, her knitting needles clicking softly as she worked on yet another scarf or blanket. The vision was so vivid that Shanane almost spoke aloud. But as quickly as it came, it faded, leaving only the empty chair and the ache in her chest.

Taking a deep breath, she turned toward the kitchen. The air was colder here, the faint scent of herbs and spices mingling with the sharp tang of disuse. The kettle still sat on the stove, its copper surface dulled with age. She reached for it instinctively, filling it with water from the tap and setting it to boil.

As she moved about the kitchen, her hands found purpose in the familiar routine. She pulled down a mug from the cupboard, the chipped ceramic bringing a small smile to her lips. It had been her grandmother's favorite. She found the tin of tea leaves on the shelf, the lid sticking slightly before giving way. The scent of chamomile and mint rose to meet her, stirring another wave of bittersweet nostalgia.

When the kettle whistled, she poured the steaming water over the leaves and carried the mug to the table. Sitting down, she cradled the warm ceramic in her hands, letting the heat seep into her skin.

For the first time since she'd arrived, the tightness in her chest began to ease. It wasn't much, just a small crack in the armor she'd built around her grief but it was something.

The young black woman stared out the window, the garden barely visible in the fading light. A faint resolve began to take root in her heart. Her grandmother had loved this place, pouring her soul into every corner of it. It felt wrong to let it fall to ruin, to let the memories fade like the flowers in the garden.

__Shanane: "I'll fix it. I'll bring it back to life." she murmured, her voice quiet but steady.

The words felt like a promise, not just to her grandmother, but to herself. She didn't know where to start or how long it would take, but she knew one thing for certain: this cottage, this garden, this life her grandmother had built it deserved to be saved.

And maybe, just maybe, in saving it, she could begin to save herself.