After love

THE LAST WARM HAND

It had been three weeks since Mariam’s death, but the old woman returned to the police station every day—at the same time, with the same broken heart. She’d sit quietly on the bench, Jolyne pressed tightly to her chest, and ask the same question.

“Have you found the driver?”

Every day, the officers gave her the same answer: no leads, no footage, no hope. And still, she came.

But that day, the waiting room wasn’t empty.

Margaret Davis was already there—with her lawyer, her husband, and a pile of polished documents. When the old woman stepped inside, a wave of cold washed through the room. She clutched Jolyne tighter, her legs trembling.

Margaret rose slowly, her heels echoing on the tiled floor.

“She’s not yours,” the lawyer said flatly. “You’re not a legal guardian. You’re old. Unfit. The child will be handed over to her father.”

The grandmother’s eyes burned with rage. “Now you remember she has a father?” she snapped. “When I begged you to take her, you threw salt at me. You called her cursed. And now—after killing her mother—you want to play mother to her daughter?”

“I am her family now,” Margaret said calmly. “This is what’s best for her.”

“No,” the old woman whispered. “What’s best for her was buried three weeks ago.”

She stood tall—fragile, trembling, but burning with something fiercer than pain. “I’m worn out, yes. My back aches. My hands shake. But as long as this child needs me… I will still be here. I’d rather she live in an orphanage than in your house of lies.”

But Margaret was prepared.

With a snap of her fingers, two officers from Social Services appeared.

The grandmother tried to fight. Her hands clung to the baby’s clothes. Jolyne began to scream—her tiny fists reaching for the only arms she’d ever known. But it was no use. Her body gave in before her will did. She collapsed to the floor, crying, as Jolyne was pulled from her chest.

“Please—don’t take her. She’s all I have left,” she begged.

Margaret didn’t even look back. She carried Jolyne out the door, her face as calm as ever, her husband following silently behind.

From the floor, the old woman raised her hand and cried out:

“I have no money. I have no power. But I will fight for you, my daughter. Just wait—just wait a little longer. Grandmother will come for you… Jolyne.”

But the baby was already gone.

And the last warm hand had finally let go.

She stayed on the floor long after they were gone.

People stepped around her. Papers shuffled. Phones rang. No one stopped. No one spoke. The air inside the station had gone cold.

All except one.

A young officer—barely older than Mariam had been—knelt quietly beside her. His uniform was slightly wrinkled, his badge dull with time. He didn’t speak right away. He simply reached out, gently lifting her trembling hand into his.

“Come,” he said softly. “Let’s get you out of here.”

He helped her up slowly, as if her body might shatter in his arms. She didn’t resist. Her eyes were too full of tears to see clearly, her chest too hollow to form words.

Outside, under the gray sky, she collapsed onto the bench beside the station steps, her hands shaking violently.

The officer stood beside her in silence for a long moment. Then, slipping something from his pocket, he pressed a folded paper into her palm.

“These are two numbers,” he said in a low voice, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening. “The first one is mine. Call anytime. Day or night. Even if you just need someone to talk to.”

He hesitated, then pointed to the second number.

“This one… is a lawyer. Not rich, but honest. He’s helped people like you before. People who didn’t stand a chance.”

She looked up, her lips trembling.

“Why… why are you helping me?”

He swallowed hard. “Because someone should have helped Mariam. Someone should have listened.”

He tipped his hat, gave her one last glance, and walked away.

She looked down at the crumpled paper in her hand, the ink smudged by her tears.

And for the first time in days… she sat a little straighter.

Because even in a world full of wolves, there were still a few who remembered what it meant to be human.

The ride home was silent, except for the soft whimpers of a baby in Margaret’s arms and the quiet hum of tires against wet pavement.

Mr. Davis sat beside her in the backseat, his eyes fixed on Jolyne’s tiny face. Her nose was red from crying, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion. He watched her chest rise and fall, so small, so delicate—so unaware of the war being fought around her.

Inside his heart, he felt something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years: shame.

This is my child.

And she doesn’t even know who I am.

A small part of him hoped—foolishly—that by allowing Margaret to adopt her, Mariam might forgive him. That somewhere, in whatever world came after death, she might finally rest.

“I’ll take care of her,” he whispered to himself. “At least… this.”

But Margaret was watching him.

“When are you going to finish the grandmother?” she asked suddenly, her voice as sharp as broken glass.

He blinked, startled. “What?”

“You heard me,” she said flatly. “She’s already making trouble. Crying in public. Accusing us. Do you think people won’t start asking questions?”

He hesitated. “She’s… old. Weak. She just buried her granddaughter. Maybe we can leave her be. Maybe—maybe we owe her that much.”

Margaret turned, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t tell me you’re feeling sorry for her.”

“I’m not,” he said too quickly. “I just—”

She cut him off. “Is it because you really loved Mariam?”

“No,” he said, forcing his eyes away. “I didn’t.”

Silence.

“Good,” she said coldly. “Then don’t forget what’s at stake. If that woman breathes the wrong word to the wrong person, this family crumbles.”

He nodded slowly.

“I promise,” he murmured. “If she acts up again… I’ll handle it.”

But he didn’t say how.

And for the rest of the ride, he couldn’t look at Jolyne again.

_______________

The house was dark when she returned, but it was still home.

Her knees ached from walking. Her chest still burned from crying. But when she looked at the crumpled paper in her hand—the numbers the young officer had given her—something inside her lifted.

She sat beside the oil lamp, took a slow breath, and dialed the lawyer.

They spoke for nearly an hour.

He listened to her story without interrupting. His voice was calm, respectful, the kind of tone people rarely used with her anymore. By the time they hung up, everything had been arranged. The lawsuit would be filed in the morning.

Tomorrow, she would begin the fight.

She had no strength. No money. But she had the truth.

And she had Mariam’s eyes still alive in that child.

⸻

Across the city, inside the Davis mansion, Margaret sat in bed watching her husband sleep. His mouth twitched slightly, the way it always did when he dreamed.

She reached for her phone.

No hesitation. No emotion.

Just one message to one person.

It simply said:

“Tonight.”

⸻

It started just after midnight.

A spark beneath the wooden floorboards. A soft hiss. Then fire—spreading fast, eating everything in its path like it had been waiting.

Inside the small house, the old woman woke coughing, confused. The smoke was thick. The heat unbearable. She tried to crawl, to reach the door, but her legs wouldn’t carry her.

She reached for the phone, but her fingers trembled too much to press the numbers.

Still, she tried.

She called him.

And he came.

The young officer raced through the night like a man chasing time itself. But when he reached the house, the sky was already glowing red. Neighbors stood nearby, frozen in fear.

There was no screaming.

Only fire.

He dropped to his knees in the dirt, tears blurring his eyes. His hands dug into the earth like it could somehow take him back in time. But it was too late.

She was gone.

The only woman who had fought for Mariam. The only soul who still remembered how much Jolyne was loved.

Gone—like she never existed.

And as the fire hissed and the ashes fell like snow, the world moved on.

Like it always does.

⸻