Hope, maybe. “I’m not saying we go back to how things were,” I added. “But maybe we try again.
From the start. No lies. No silence.
No secrets.”
Mark blinked a few times and gave a small, careful smile. “I’d like that,” he said, barely above a whisper. I nodded.
“Then we try.”
One year later, the world felt softer. The hurt wasn’t gone, but it wasn’t sharp anymore. Mark and I stood side by side at Lily’s grave, bundled in coats, our breath showing in little clouds.
The wind rustled the trees around us, and the leaves—gold, red, and brown—danced across the grass. I bent down and placed a small chocolate cake on the ground, just big enough for a candle. Mark knelt beside me and gently set down a photo of Lily.
She was grinning wide, wearing the same plastic tiara I had seen months ago. My chest tightened, but not in pain—in love. For a girl I never knew, but now carried in my heart.
We stayed for a while in silence, then drove to a quiet diner just outside town. The place had checkered floors and warm coffee. We shared a slice of apple pie at the corner booth.
The same one where people came to begin again. Mark reached into his coat pocket and handed me a small, carefully wrapped box. “It’s for your birthday,” he said.
I opened it slowly. Inside was a gold necklace with a tiny pendant shaped like a lily. My eyes watered.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, my voice barely holding. “I’ll never miss another one,” he said. “I know,” I whispered, reaching for his hand.
Because now, we didn’t celebrate just one life. We honored two. And the best part—we did it together.
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