Bela's POV
Morning light filtered through the curtains of my bedroom, weak and pale. The rain had finally stopped, leaving behind a silence that felt even heavier than the sound of water on the windows. I stayed in bed longer than usual, reluctant to face the tension that would surely be waiting downstairs.
The events of the previous nights replayed in my mind, Clara’s words echoing like a haunting refrain: “This is dangerous.” She wasn’t wrong, but the more I thought about it, the less I cared. My feelings for her weren’t something I could control, no matter how hard I tried.
Finally, I forced myself to get up and head to the kitchen. The house felt emptier than usual, though I knew Clara was probably in her office, throwing herself into work to avoid me.
I was right. When I passed her office door, it was closed, the faint sound of typing seeping through. She didn’t acknowledge me, and I didn’t knock.
Breakfast was a lonely affair. I sat at the kitchen table with a bowl of cereal, staring out at the garden. The overgrown bushes and weeds reminded me of my mother. She had loved tending to that garden, and it used to be one of the few places in the house that felt truly alive. Clara had tried to maintain it after my mother passed, but over time, it had been neglected.
After finishing my breakfast, I decided to clean the garden. It wasn’t like I had anything else to do, and the thought of staying idle while Clara ignored me was unbearable.
By the afternoon, I had made significant progress with the mess. The sun was now shining, warming my skin as I pulled weeds and trimmed hedges. I could almost hear my mother’s voice, laughing as she instructed me on which plants to keep and which to discard.
I leaned back, wiping the sweat from my forehead, and spotted something nestled in the soil near the base of one of the larger rose bushes. It was a small tin box, rusted and weathered. Curious, I dug it out and opened it, finding a stack of folded papers inside.
The handwriting on the top sheet froze me in place. It was my mother’s.
With trembling hands, I unfolded the letter and began to read.
My Dearest Clara,
If you’re reading this, it means I’m no longer here. I don’t know what took me, but I do know that I can trust you to take care of Bela. You’ve always been my rock, my safe place, and I need you to be that for her now. She’s stronger than she realizes, but she’ll need someone to guide her, to remind her that she’s not alone.
I’m entrusting her to you, not because it’s convenient, but because I know you’ll love her as fiercely as I do. Please don’t let her close herself off. Show her that the world is still full of beauty, even in the darkest times.
With all my love,
Alyssa
Tears blurred my vision as I finished reading. My mother’s words hit me like a wave, the weight of her trust in Clara and her unwavering belief in me cutting through the haze of my grief.
I wiped my eyes and carefully folded the letter, placing it back in the box. My mother’s voice echoed in my mind: “She’ll love her as fiercely as I do.”
What did she mean? Did she know something I didn’t?
When I came back inside, the house was quiet again. Clara’s office door was still closed, but I couldn’t leave things unresolved any longer. I knocked lightly, and when she didn’t respond, I opened the door.
Clara looked up from her desk, surprised. “Bela, I’m in the middle of something—”
“I found something in the garden,” I interrupted, holding up the tin box. Her expression shifted, her gaze softening as she recognized it.
“Where did you find that?” she asked, standing and walking toward me.
“Near the rose bushes,” I replied, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions inside me. “It’s a letter. From my mom.”
Clara froze, her eyes locking onto mine. “Alyssa?”
I nodded, holding the box out to her. She hesitated before taking it, her hands trembling slightly as she opened the lid.
I watched as she unfolded the letter, her eyes scanning the familiar handwriting. Her lips parted, and her breath hitched as she read. By the time she finished, tears streamed down her face.
“She trusted you,” I said, breaking the silence. “She believed you would take care of me. And I think you’ve done that, Clara. More than you realize.”
Clara wiped her face, still holding the letter. “I don’t know if I’ve done enough,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. “I’ve tried, Bela, but I feel like I’m failing her. And you.”
“You’re not failing me,” I said firmly, stepping closer. “You’re the only thing holding me together.”
Clara looked at me, her brown eyes filled with a mix of guilt and longing. “I don’t know if I can be what you need.”
“You already are,” I said softly.
For a moment, neither of us moved. The air between us felt heavy, charged with something unspoken but undeniable.
“I miss her too,” Clara said finally, her voice trembling. “Every single day.”
“I know,” I replied. “But she’s not here anymore. And we are.”
Clara’s eyes widened slightly, as if she wasn’t sure what I was implying. “Bela...”
“I’m not saying this is what she would have wanted,” I continued, my voice steady. “But she believed in us. In you. And maybe... maybe that’s enough.”
The silence returned, the weight of my words hanging in the air. Clara seemed to wrestle with something, her hands clutching the letter like an anchor.
“I need time,” she said finally, her voice almost inaudible.
I nodded, stepping back to give her space. “Take all the time you need,” I said, though my heart ached at the thought of waiting.
Clara nodded in response, her expression conflicted but slightly softer. I left the room, feeling both lighter and heavier at the same time.
That night, lying in bed, I thought about my mother’s letter. Her faith in Clara, her belief that she would love me as fiercely as she had. I didn’t yet know what kind of love that was, but I was starting to believe it might not be as impossible as Clara thought.
For the first time in weeks, I fell asleep with a glimmer of hope.
A sharp sound startled me awake. It took me a moment to realize it was the doorbell. I glanced at the clock on my bedside table. Almost midnight.
I got up, my heart racing. Who could be at the door at this hour? I hurried downstairs, the sound of my footsteps echoing in the quiet house. Clara was already in the hallway, her expression confused and cautious as she approached the door.
“Who could it be?” I asked, my voice still thick with sleep.
Clara shot me a quick look before unlocking the door and opening it partially. Her posture was tense, as if preparing for anything.
But nothing could have prepared me for who was on the other side.
“Richard?” My voice came out in a disbelieving whisper.
My ex-boyfriend stood on the doorstep, rain dripping from his soaked jacket. His hair was disheveled, and there was a determined expression on his face.
“Bela,” he said, his voice firm but tinged with something that sounded almost desperate. “We need to talk.”
Shock paralyzed me, my hands trembling slightly as I stared at him.
Clara stood still beside me, her gaze shifting between Richard and me, the tension in the air growing with each passing second.
“Why are you here?” I finally managed to ask, though my voice was weaker than I’d hoped.
Richard stepped forward, his eyes locked on mine. “I made a mistake. A big mistake. And I’m not leaving until I fix it.”
My breath caught, the weight of his words hanging over me as Clara remained silent, a shadow of something unreadable crossing her face.