ManyWriters

The year I turned eleven, my parents died.
My father's friend, Uncle Gabriel, carried me home and raised me.
He was by my side for twelve years.
I was secretly in love with him for seven years.
Every birthday, I would muster the courage to confess, only for him to coldly push me away.
"I'm fifteen years older than you. I am your guardian, nothing more."
He brought his fiancée home, and I crouched outside their door, listening to the sounds of their intimacy.
My heart shattered completely.
I packed my bags and left for California.
Five years later, a letter from a hospital in New York City arrived at my studio.
The letter said that in Gabriel's lucid moments, he’d been calling my name.
Stella.

The Secret Clutched In My Uncle’s Hand

That small bronze sculpture lay on the ground, not far from me.


It was like a silent, cruel witness, having seen the beginning of everything, and now, the end.


I don't know how much time had passed. Maybe it was only a few minutes, or maybe it was as long as a century.


The attending physician straightened up, wiped the sweat from his brow, took off his stethoscope, and turned around. His heavy gaze swept over me, collapsed on the floor, before he finally, slowly, and with great difficulty, shook his head.


His weary voice, carrying a heavy sentence, rang out clearly over the piercing, flatlining tone of the monitor:


"I'm sorry. We did everything we could. Time of death, 3:17 PM."


That long, drawn-out tone, the one that pronounced his death, became the only sound in the world.


The emergency room fell silent in an instant.


All that remained were the heavy sighs of the medical staff and the soft clinks of them clearing away the instruments.


Chapter 13