Chapter 8: The Name Beneath the Ashes

"I know it was you."

David's voice cut through the stillness like a knife into soft cloth. The words weren't angry. They weren't loud. But they were heavy — too heavy for a night so quiet.

He wasn't speaking to a person. Not really.

Just the air. The space. The ghost of something that wouldn't leave.

Not a spirit. Not a hallucination.

Just… a familiar absence that didn't feel quite so empty tonight.

The curtain by the window swayed, even though the fan was off. Then it stilled.

Silence reclaimed the room.

But David didn't feel alone.

---

The next morning, light crept in slowly — golden, drowsy, like it didn't want to intrude. The sky was still gray, veiled behind a hush of mist.

David hadn't changed out of Mavia's hoodie. The sleeves were too long, the fabric worn down at the elbows. He hadn't moved the journal either — it still lay open on the desk, pages fluttered slightly by the breeze.

He was up before Meher for the first time in weeks.

He made tea. Two cups. Too much sugar in both, on purpose.

When Meher walked in, hoodie half-zipped, hair a mess, she blinked at the sight.

"You cooked?" she mumbled, still groggy.

David shrugged. "Hot water counts, right?"

She picked up the mug, sniffed it, then sipped. Her smile was slow, soft.

"Perfect," she said. "Just like he used to make it."

They sat across from each other at the kitchen table. No rush. No pressure.

For once, the silence wasn't awkward. It was comfortable. Familiar.

David stirred his spoon slowly. The metal tapped against the ceramic in a rhythmic way.

"I want to tell the whole story," he said finally.

"You already are," Meher replied gently.

"No, I mean… all of it." He looked up. "Even the parts I haven't figured out yet."

Her brow furrowed. "You think there's more?"

David met her eyes. "Don't you?"

She didn't answer.

But the way her gaze dropped to the table said enough.

---

Later that day, he sat cross-legged on his bedroom floor, the journal in his lap.

He turned the pages again, slower this time.

Mavia's handwriting was uneven in places — rushed, as if thoughts spilled too fast for the pen. Some pages were filled with lyrics and cryptic lines. Others had rough sketches: trees, faces, a recurring image of something burning.

David's fingers brushed over a familiar drawing — a page he'd ignored before.

A bonfire.

People surrounding it. Shadows behind them.

And one line beneath:

> Not everything thrown into fire disappears.

The memory hit him then — uninvited and sharp.

Mavia's sixteenth birthday.

The woods. The firepit. The ghost stories. Burnt marshmallows.

And that moment.

David had said, "Maybe people like us aren't meant to last."

Mavia had gone quiet, then murmured, "You might be right."

At the time, it hadn't felt strange. Just two tired teens being poetic.

But there was something else.

He remembered now — Mavia had taken a folded piece of paper from his pocket, stared at it for a long moment, then tossed it into the flames.

David hadn't asked.

He'd assumed it was a scrap. A bad poem. A thought not worth keeping.

But what if it wasn't?

What if that paper had meant something?

And what if it wasn't the only one?

His pulse quickened.

He stood.

---

The attic door creaked as he pulled it open. Dust spiraled in the air like ghosts disturbed from sleep.

No one had been up here since the funeral.

The wooden floor groaned under his steps. Sunlight filtered through a cracked window, catching on the edges of stacked boxes.

He scanned the labels. School Stuff. Art Supplies. Winter Clothes.

He opened the one marked School Stuff.

Textbooks. Pens. A scarf with a torn edge — David remembered it from their winter walks.

Then something heavier at the bottom — a small, rusted metal tin.

It clicked open with some effort.

Inside… ashes.

Burnt paper. Crumbling, blackened fragments.

But in the center, one piece hadn't burned completely.

Just a corner.

David's hands trembled as he picked it up carefully.

A single name was still visible:

Zayan.

---

He didn't know how long he stood there.

The air felt thinner now.

Zayan. The boy who had disappeared. Then reappeared. The one who smiled with guilt behind his eyes. The one who called Mavia "brother" in a way that sounded like goodbye.

Why had Mavia burned his name?

What had Zayan given him?

What had Mavia wanted to erase?

Questions buzzed, sharp and unrelenting.

He called Zayan before he could talk himself out of it.

The phone rang three times.

Then, "David?"

"I found something," David said. His voice was low. Uneven.

Pause.

"What kind of something?"

"In a box. A name. Yours. Burned."

Silence stretched too long.

Finally, Zayan spoke, softer now. "I wondered if he kept it."

"What was it?"

"A letter. One I wrote him. Gave it back to him the week before his birthday."

"Why?"

"I thought… maybe if I returned it, the feelings would disappear."

David closed his eyes. The anger rising wasn't loud — it was quiet, controlled. But it hurt more that way.

"You thought giving it back would protect him?"

Zayan didn't answer.

And that was answer enough.

---

When David hung up, he sank to the hallway floor.

His breath was shallow. He wasn't crying — not quite. Just… unraveling.

Like if he moved too fast, he'd fall apart.

Meher found him like that.

She didn't say anything. Just sat beside him, her shoulder touching his. Then, gently, she reached around and wrapped her arms around him in a soft back hug.

It wasn't romantic. It wasn't awkward.

It was something deeper than both.

A tether.

"I thought Zayan was honest," David whispered.

"There's always more beneath silence," Meher murmured. "Especially when it hurts."

David looked at her. "Why didn't Mavia tell me?"

Her voice was almost a whisper. "Because you were safe. And we bleed everywhere except the places that feel like home."

---

That night, David sat at his desk.

He opened his laptop, pulled up the writing platform, and created a new post. But this time, it wasn't just a story.

It was a confession.

Title: The Things We Burn

> Sometimes love looks like silence.

Sometimes it looks like ashes.

We think fire erases things.

But all it does is change the shape of pain — not its existence.

He gave someone his words once.

They gave them back.

He never asked why.

But I will.

David stared at the blinking cursor.

Then hit post.

2:12 a.m.

---

By sunrise, the story had been read 3,400 times.

The comments poured in.

> I did the same. Thought I was deleting him. But I was deleting the version of me that loved.

My sister wrote letters no one ever read. You're giving them voice now. Please don't stop.

This chapter made me cry. I burned his photos. Thought it would make it hurt less. It didn't.

David didn't respond to the comments.

Not yet.

He just watched them come.

---

Later, he sat by the window. The notebook rested in his lap. The small glass dish beside him held the charred paper.

The wind tugged gently at the edges.

He let it.

Some things, he realized, are meant to be let go.

But others…

Others are meant to be rewritten.

---

End of Chapter