Chapter 99: CHAPTER NINETY-NINE
Winter's POV
The first day without Cami was a haze of unanswered phone calls and unrelenting grief. The news had spread quickly, and the house felt suffocating with people stopping by—neighbors with casseroles, friends offering quiet condolences, and even some of Cami’s coworkers, their faces pale with shared shock.
But none of it felt real.
I moved through the motions mechanically, accepting hugs and murmured words I couldn’t quite process. Damon stayed close, a silent sentinel who seemed to know exactly when to step in and shield me from the overwhelming tide of sympathy.
Luisa arrived late in the afternoon. Her presence was like a storm—quiet but charged with emotion. She walked in with a box of photographs, her face drawn and pale.
“I thought these might help,” she said, her voice trembling.
I glanced at the box, my stomach twisting, pictures of Cami, no doubt. Memories frozen in time, while the reality of her absence loomed over us.
“Thank you,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
Luisa hesitated, her hands clutching the box tightly. “Can I stay for a while? I don’t want to go home. Not yet.”
The words surprised me. Luisa wasn’t one to admit vulnerability, but in that moment, she looked fragile—almost as lost as I felt.
“Of course,” I said, stepping aside to let her in.
We sat in the living room, the box of photos untouched on the coffee table. Damon had taken Kai to the park, giving us space to grieve without trying to shield my son from the weight of it all.
“I keep thinking about the last time I saw her,” Luisa said suddenly, her voice breaking the heavy silence. “She brought me lunch at work. Just showed up with sandwiches and that silly grin of hers.”
I swallowed hard, picturing the scene. It was so like Cami to do something simple yet thoughtful, her warmth shining through in the smallest gestures.
“She called me last week,” I said, my voice shaky. “Wanted to talk about Kai’s birthday. She had all these ideas—she was so excited.”
Luisa nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. “She was always so full of life. It doesn’t seem fair.”
“It’s not,” I said, the bitterness sharp in my throat. “She didn’t deserve this.”
The room fell silent again, the weight of our shared grief pressing down on us.
Later that evening, after Luisa had gone home, Damon returned with Kai, who was flushed and giggling from the chill of the winter air.
“Mommy, we saw ducks!” he exclaimed, running to me with unbridled excitement.
“That sounds fun, baby,” I said, pulling him into a hug. His innocence was a small light in the darkness, but it also made the pain sharper.
“Did Auntie Cami ever see ducks?” he asked, his big eyes filled with curiosity.
I froze, my arms tightening around him. “Yes,” I said softly. “She loved ducks.”
Kai nodded, satisfied with the answer. “Maybe we can show her next time.”
Damon stepped in then, gently distracting Kai with a story about their trip. I mouthed a silent thank-you, the lump in my throat making it impossible to speak.
When Kai was finally asleep, Damon and I sat on the couch, the quiet of the house almost deafening.
“You’re doing amazing,” Damon said, breaking the silence.
I let out a bitter laugh. “I don’t feel amazing. I feel like I’m barely holding it together.”
“That’s okay,” he said, his voice steady. “No one expects you to have it all figured out right now.”
I looked at him, his face softened with concern. “You’ve been so strong through all of this. I don’t know how you do it.”
“I’m not as strong as you think,” he admitted. “I’m just trying to be what you need right now.”
His honesty was both comforting and disarming. For a moment, I allowed myself to lean on him, letting his strength fill the cracks in my own.
The days that followed were a blur of funeral preparations and the suffocating weight of reality sinking in. Cami’s absence was a constant ache, her name on the tip of everyone’s tongue but rarely spoken aloud.
Luisa and I worked together on the arrangements, an unspoken truce forming between us. We didn’t talk much, but the tension that usually simmered between us was muted, replaced by the shared burden of loss.
One afternoon, as we sorted through Cami’s belongings, Luisa held up a bright blue scarf.
“She loved this one,” she said, her voice tinged with fondness. “Said it made her feel like summer, even in the dead of winter.”
I smiled faintly, the memory bittersweet. “She tried to steal it from me once. Said I didn’t appreciate the color enough.”
Luisa chuckled softly, the sound fragile but genuine. “That sounds like her.”
For the first time in years, we shared a moment of connection—small, tentative, but real.
The funeral was beautiful but devastating. The church was packed with friends and family, their grief palpable as they filed in. Damon sat beside me, his hand on mine, grounding me through the storm of emotions.
When it was my turn to speak, I felt like I might shatter under the weight of it. But as I looked out at the sea of faces, all gathered to honor my sister, I found a strength I didn’t know I had.
“Cami was more than a sister to me,” I began, my voice trembling. “She was my best friend, my biggest cheerleader, and the one person who could always make me laugh no matter what.”
The words flowed through the tears, each one a tribute to the woman who had been such a vibrant force in my life. When I finished, the applause was muted but heartfelt, and I felt Damon’s steady presence as I returned to my seat.
That night, as the house grew quiet again, I found myself sitting on the couch with Luisa. The tension between us was still there, but it felt different—less combative, more like an unspoken understanding.
“She’d want us to be okay,” Luisa said, breaking the silence.
I nodded, tears slipping down my cheeks. “I don’t know how to be okay without her.”
“We’ll figure it out,” she said softly. “Together.”
It was the closest thing to reconciliation we’d had in years, fragile but genuine. And as the night wore on, I allowed myself to hope that maybe, just maybe, we could find a way to heal—not just from Cami’s death, but from all the wounds that had come before.