The churchyard was quiet in that particular way old places could be, where even footsteps seemed to lower their volume out of habit. The winter air carried a mild bite, and the grass looked flattened in spots from recent rain. A few stones leaned a little, as if time had been nudging them for years.

Sorianne and her Aunt Vee walked along the path without rushing. Sorianne kept her hands close to her cardigan, the belladonna flower still tucked into her hair. The light had shifted since the party. It was softer now, dimmer at the edges, and the sky looked like it was preparing for evening.

They stopped in front of Thea’s grave. The tombstone looked a bit worn, the letters still readable but not sharp the way they would have been when it was new. There was a quiet sadness in that, not dramatic, just real. The stone read:

“Theanna Valynn. Daughter of the Valynn Family. A painter, a mother, a sister and a friend; 1990 – 2018.”

Sorianne stared at the name for a second, as if reading it slowly could make it feel closer.

Vee set down the small items she carried and knelt without any fuss. She took out a cloth and began cleaning the stone with careful, practiced movements, wiping away bits of dirt and the faint marks left by weather. Sorianne crouched beside her and helped, brushing away dead leaves, pulling out a few stray weeds around the base.

As they worked, Vee spoke in a softer voice, like she was letting herself drift back in time.

“Your mom was clumsy,” she said, wiping the edge of the stone. “Not in a cute way either. In a way where I had to clean up after her every day.”

Sorianne looked up, smiling. “She was?”

Vee huffed, almost amused. “She’d spill things, drop things, bump into tables. She’d come home with paint on her face and act like she didn’t notice.”

Sorianne’s smile grew, warm and quiet. The image settled into her mind easily. It made her mother feel real in a way that photographs sometimes failed to do. It also made her aunt and her mother feel like sisters, not just names connected by tragedy. When they were done, the grave looked cared for again. The stone looked cleaner, the ground neater. It still carried time, but it no longer looked forgotten.

Vee stood and dusted her hands off. “I need to speak to the pastor for a minute,” she said. “Donation. If you need me, I’ll be inside.”

Sorianne nodded, then reached out and held her aunt’s hand for a second longer than usual. Not tight, just steady. Vee squeezed back, eyes lingering on her niece’s face as if she wanted to check whether Sorianne was doing alright.

Sorianne opened her small bag and pulled out cash of her own. Around fifty pounds. Vee’s mouth opened, ready to protest, then closed again. She knew that look. Sorianne’s quiet determination could be harder to move than a wall.

“You should keep that,” Aunt Vee said anyway, voice gentler than firm.

Sorianne shook her head. “I want to.”

Vee exhaled and nodded once, accepting it the way you accepted the tide. “Alright,” she said. “Don’t start a habit.”

Sorianne smiled like she had already started the habit years ago. Vee walked toward the church, leaving Sorianne alone.

The quiet grew thicker when she was by herself. The world didn’t feel scary, just still. Sorianne knelt down in front of the tombstone and rested one hand on her knee. Her face looked calm. There were no tears. Her eyes held a soft brightness, like she was genuinely glad to be here. Even so, something about being alone at the grave always felt slightly off. Not unbearable, but it is strange; it was easier when Aunt Vee was nearby, like the presence of another living person made the silence less heavy.

Sorianne reached forward and traced the letters gently with her fingertips.

Valynn.

The family name looked formal carved into stone, larger than it sounded in her head. Then she touched the first name.

Theanna.

Sorianne swallowed once. She did not rush herself.

“Hi, Mom,” she said quietly. Her voice didn’t echo. The churchyard absorbed sound like it was used to secrets.

“It’s my birthday today,” Sorianne continued. “Aunt Vee and Uncle Trunde did the party again just like last year, and the year before that. It was small, but nice.”

She smiled a little as she spoke, remembering the cake, the voices, Matilda’s loud opinions.

“People came,” she said. “Matilda came early, obviously. Her parents came too. The neighbours. Ms Trundelle. Mr Veloutte.”

She paused, then added, as if telling a favourite detail, “Matilda approved the cake. She said mint would have been a crime.”

Sorianne’s lips pressed together as she tried not to laugh too loudly at a grave. She ended up letting out a soft breath that sounded like a tiny giggle.

“I took a picture yesterday,” she said, shifting slightly on her knees. “The sunset. The sea looked really calm, and the light was… I don’t know. It felt like something I couldn’t keep unless I did something fast.”

Her eyes dropped to the stone again, and her fingers traced the carved line of a letter.

“I wanted to paint it immediately,” she admitted. “Like I was chasing it before it disappeared.”

She spoke in plain words, careful and honest.

“Hope is like that sometimes,” she said after a moment. “It just shows up, and you grab it before you can think too much.”

The air felt colder on her cheeks now, but she kept going.

“School is closed until New Year,” she said. “Construction. Everyone was happy about it. Matilda is going to go mad with boredom by the second week I bet.”

Sorianne glanced toward the church for a moment, then back to the stone.

“Her parents pick us up sometimes when it rains,” she said. “They act like they’re annoyed, but they always do it anyway. And Ms Trundelle accidentally cursed in class last week.” She smiled again, eyes bright with the memory. “She tried to pretend she didn’t. Everyone heard it.”

Sorianne’s shoulders rose and fell with a quiet breath.

“And Mr Veloutte,” she added, “made a joke about painting a bunny. It was a silly joke. Matilda laughed like it was the best thing she’d ever heard.”

She fell quiet for a second, the kind of pause that wasn’t empty. It was full of meaning she didn’t know how to say quickly. Then she spoke again, softer.

“I’m doing okay,” she told her mother. “I’m grateful. Aunt Vee and Uncle Trunde… they’re good. They really are.”

Her voice tightened slightly, but she stayed steady.

“I’m most grateful for you though…,” she said. “…for loving me when you could. For taking care of me in the time you had. For being my family.”

She brushed her thumb over the carved name again, as if touch could bridge time.

“I’ll be good,” Sorianne said, the promise simple and sincere. “And when I grow up, I’ll keep painting. For you. So you’re still… here, in some way.”

She didn’t say anything dramatic. She didn’t need to. The weight of her words was already enough.

A movement in her peripheral vision made her look up. Aunt Vee was near the path, waving lightly so she wouldn’t startle her. It was time to go. Sorianne nodded, then turned back to the tombstone for one last moment. She lifted her hand to her lips, kissed her fingertips gently, and placed them against the stone.

“See you next year,” she whispered.

Then she stood and jogged toward Aunt Vee, boots tapping the path. Vee opened her arms slightly, and Sorianne leaned into her side as they started walking back. They left the churchyard together, steps steady, the cold air following them all the way down the path toward home.