A garden. A rhythm of honesty. And though her choices shattered hearts, they also built something real.
I went home and said nothing. Mama asked if I found her—I told her no. We both knew that peace sometimes lives in silence.
That night, I sat by the fireplace and burned the letter. Not out of anger, but release. Laura had built a life.
Luke had moved on. And so had we, in a way. As the flames curled around the final words—Love, always, Laura—I whispered, “Goodbye.” But I knew it wasn’t truly goodbye.
Somewhere, in a yellow house filled with sunflowers and sidewalk chalk, my sister was living a life she chose. And in that, there was something close to peace.
