Torn Threads

Mira had never liked funerals, but this one felt especially unbearable. It wasn't the somber music, or the crowd of black-clad strangers murmuring sympathy. It was the absence. Her father's absence. The one man who always made the world make sense—even when he was stubborn, even when he didn't understand her dreams—he had been there. And now he wasn't.

The church smelled like incense and roses. Too sweet. Too heavy. It made her nauseous.

She stood at the edge of the pew, fingers trembling as they clutched the order of service. Noah sat behind her, quiet, respectfully present. He hadn't offered clichés or empty comfort. He had simply shown up. That meant more to her than any words ever could.

After the service, a few people lingered. Family friends. Distant cousins. Her mother wept in the corner, consoled by a neighbor. Mira barely heard their voices. She kept staring at the framed photo of her father next to the casket.

Noah appeared beside her.

"Come with me," he said gently.

They left through the side door, escaping the stale air and polite sorrow. Outside, the sky threatened rain. Mira took a shaky breath.

"I feel like I'm in someone else's life," she said. "Like I stepped into a movie I didn't audition for."

"You're grieving," Noah said softly.

"It's more than that." She looked at him. "I've been away so long. I left everything behind—and now I'm not sure what's left of me here."

He hesitated, then tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "You're still you. Even when you don't feel like it."

They drove in silence back to her childhood home. The house felt smaller than she remembered. Time had chipped the edges off everything—walls, paint, memories. But one thing still stood strong: the dusty easel in the garage, where her father used to watch her sketch.

She went there alone, later that night. Fingers tracing the worn wood. Her tears were quiet this time.

When she returned to the living room, Noah was waiting. She curled beside him without a word, letting the warmth of his presence soothe her.

"I wish he'd met you properly," she whispered. "I think… he would've liked you."

"I would've liked him," Noah replied.

Their eyes met. The weight of sorrow pressed in, but so did something else—something tender and careful and real.

Mira knew the days ahead would be hard. Returning to the city. Finding work again. Figuring out who she was after everything had changed.

But tonight, with Noah's arms around her, she allowed herself to believe in something simple: that love didn't need permission to grow in the cracks.

It just did.