Underneath Ashes

Later, she choked on her words. It was getting harder to speak — emotion swelled too thick in her throat. Words weren't enough to express how broken she felt. She stared at the microphone in her hand before letting it fall to the ground with a dull clatter and a loud screech from the speakers.

She turned to the urn holding her father's ashes. With trembling fingers, she forced it open.

"Hazel? Hazel! Stop! Put it back!" Mrs. Kaydence Allen cried out but Hazel was defiant.

Her mother's voice faded like background noise. Hazel lowered the bottle into her hands, and some of the ash slipped through her fingers — rising into the air like dust on a windy day.

Mrs. Kaydence rushed forward, but Aunt Kate held her back. The crowd stood frozen, tense with alarm.

Hazel stooped, kissed the ash resting on her palm, and gently poured the rest back into the bottle. She sealed it shut, then — as if something cracked wide open inside her — shouted:

"A dad like you shouldn't have left this early! Whatever your reason, you should've stayed… for our sake!"

Tears poured down her cheeks. She turned and fled the burial ground, sobbing violently. Mrs. Kaydence looked stricken — terrified that her daughter might have truly lost it.

Baileé darted after her immediately despite her condition. Careful yet aware of a miscarriage.

Hazel ran on through the downpour, soaked to the bone. She didn't care. Her clothes clung to her skin. The splashes beneath her feet echoed into the silence of her thoughts. Rain blurred her vision, but she kept moving — blindly, breathlessly. Wet strands of hair stuck to her mouth. Her head throbbed from crying so hard.

Then… that old voice returned in her mind.

This is the moment I hoped would never come. I always dismissed the thought with forced optimism. It's not just my father's death — it's the storm of suffering that will follow…

Dusk fell heavier. She stopped running and found a place nearby.

Baileé, far behind, had slowed. Panting, she'd lost sight of Hazel — but kept heading in the direction she last saw her.

Hazel had collapsed onto a lonely nest swing at the end of the road. She stared at the ripples forming in the roadside puddles. Her body curled inward, too exhausted to cry. Her eyes, puffy and red, stung with every blink. The veins at her temples pulsed visibly beneath damp, dark skin. A sudden flash of lightning illuminated her soaked figure — hunched like a lost bird, body outlined by drenched fabric.

She sat there wondering: What's the point of living, if we all end up dead? Life, the whole point of aimless existence, sounded bizarre to her.

It felt like studying hard for a test, only to forget everything by morning.

Meanwhile, back at the house, Mrs. Kaydence sat unmoving. Her gaze was fixed, eyes dry and distant, as if frozen in thought for over an hour. She didn't stir — except for the occasional blink.

Then her cell phone buzzed.

She reached for it slowly, fingers stiff with fatigue.

"Hello?" she answered, her voice dull.

"Good afternoon, ma'am. Am I speaking with Mrs. Kaydence Howard?" a man's voice said.

"Yes. Who is this?" she asked, yawning faintly.

"This is Mr. Stuart Russell, representative of People's Merit Bank. First, let me say we're sorry for your loss. I'm calling regarding some outstanding debts owed by your late husband, Mr. James Howard."

Kaydence blinked hard.

Debts?

James never told her he owed the bank anything. That wasn't like him. He always kept her informed — especially about finances. He worked at the same bank now claiming he owed them.

"Yes…? When did he borrow such money?" she asked, her heart dropping.

"Two years ago, ma'am. June 12th, to be exact."

"We… weren't aware of any debt," she said slowly, fingers gripping the phone tighter.

"According to our records, the late Mr. James Howard took a loan of nine hundred million dollars. There are signed collaterals."

She gasped. 900 million?

Her chest tightened, her mind spiraling. James… why didn't you tell me? What could he possibly have needed that amount of money for?

They ran a successful café. They never lacked. He was always frugal — for himself, especially. Nothing about this made sense.

That evening at dinner, Hazel had eaten in silence — wolfing down mutton-stuffed bell peppers and corn, not in the mood for any conversation. Kaydence had watched her from across the table, imagining how hungry she must've been.

Hazel wiped her mouth, dropped her cutlery with a clank, and left the table without even a "goodnight."

The couple took the opportunity to talk.

"How's the café doing?" James asked, sipping water.

"Not bad," Kaydence replied. "Hazel probably knows the day-to-day better than I do."

James let out a dry chuckle. "If I don't handle our finances right, we'll be choked as fuck."

Kaydence raised a brow.

James didn't usually talk about money. When he did, it was vague. But she didn't press — he always provided, always protected. That had been enough.

She offered a weak smile. "If you ever need financial support, the café is doing well enough to help. I know my medical bills are draining. I hate being a burden to you, James…"

James reached for her hand and squeezed it tightly.

"We'll be fine, Kaydie. I never said I needed support. I can always handle your bills. We'll have everything we need," he said with a heavy sigh. "I won't let us suffer."

But Kaydence caught a flicker in his eyes — a subtle tension. Then, just like that, he switched the topic to a work colleague.

Back in the present, she realized the voice on the phone was repeating her name.

"Mrs. Allen? Hello?"

She blinked out of her daze.

"I'm still here, Mr. Stuart…"

Her mind returned to that dinner conversation. The clues had been there. James had tried to tell her — in his own quiet, cryptic way.

He always suffered in silence.

And now that silence was speaking louder than ever.