Chapter 7: What grief does to a home
1315 Words
They left Tokyo before the soil over Maria Hart’s grave had settled.
The apartment still smelled like her.
Her scarf still hung on the back of the chair.
Her teacup was still beside the sink.
Jade stood in the doorway of the kitchen the night before they left.
She touched the cup.
“Are we not even going to wash it?” she asked quietly.
Dominic didn’t look up from the laptop.
“It doesn’t matter.”
Her fingers tightened around the porcelain.
“It mattered to her.”
Silence.
He was deleting digital footprints.
Bank traces. Security records. Their lease agreement. The hospital report.
Erasing.
Always erasing.
Jade watched him.
Something in his face had changed.
He didn’t look broken.
He looked sharpened.
Like grief had turned him into a blade.
“Dad.”
No response.
“Dad.”
“What, Jade?” His tone was sharp. Too sharp.
She flinched.
“You didn’t cry.”
The words came out before she could stop them.
He finally looked at her.
His eyes were red. Bloodshot. Exhausted.
“I don’t have time to cry.”
She swallowed.
“You had time to be angry at me yesterday.”
His jaw tightened.
“That’s different.”
“How?”
He stood abruptly.
“Because if you had stayed inside that day instead of arguing about going out, maybe she wouldn’t have felt rushed. Maybe she wouldn’t have left alone.”
The words hung between them.
Cold.
Heavy.
Jade’s chest felt like something inside it cracked.
“You’re blaming me.”
“I’m saying everything matters.”
“You’re blaming me.”
“I’m saying we cannot afford mistakes!”
Her voice trembled.
“I’m not a mistake.”
He closed his eyes.
For a second — just one — he looked like the man who used to carry her on his shoulders.
Then it was gone.
“Pack your things.”
The Flight
On the plane, Jade didn’t look out the window this time.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t speak.
Her hands rested in her lap, fingers laced tightly together.
Dominic glanced at her several times.
She looked… still.
Too still.
When the flight attendant offered juice, she shook her head without lifting her eyes.
“Are you feeling sick?” Dominic asked.
“No.”
“Then eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You need strength.”
“For what?”
He didn’t answer.
Her voice was flat now.
No tremble.
No tears.
Just emptiness.
He should have been relieved she wasn’t screaming anymore.
But this?
This silence was worse.
London
The air in London felt different.
Damp. Grey. Heavy.
New names.
New documents.
New flat in a quiet neighborhood where no one asked questions.
Dominic Knox.
Aria Knox.
Jade didn’t protest the new name this time.
She didn’t ask what happened to Maria Hart.
She didn’t ask why her mother’s grave would never be visited again.
She simply watched as her father handed her a passport with someone else’s face printed beneath her own.
“You’re Aria now,” he said.
She nodded.
“Okay.”
No argument.
No resistance.
That frightened him.
The Harshness
Three nights later, Dominic was reviewing security footage from nearby streets.
Jade walked into the living room quietly.
“Can I ask something?”
“Make it quick.”
“Do you think she was scared?”
His hands froze over the keyboard.
“What?”
“When they took her. Do you think she knew she was going to die?”
He swallowed.
“That’s not productive thinking.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He stood up suddenly.
“I said stop.”
She looked at him carefully.
“You don’t want to talk about her.”
“I don’t want you drowning in what you can’t change.”
“I’m already drowning.”
His voice rose.
“Enough!”
The sound echoed in the small apartment.
She didn’t jump this time.
She didn’t cry.
She just stared at him.
“You used to be different,” she said quietly.
“How?”
“You used to hold me when I cried.”
“I still would.”
“No. You wouldn’t.”
That hit him harder than anything else she had said.
But instead of softening, he hardened.
“You need to understand something, Aria.”
She blinked at the name.
“I am doing this to keep you alive. I don’t have the luxury of being gentle right now.”
Her lips parted slightly.
“So I lost my mother… and now I lose you too?”
“That’s dramatic.”
“No,” she whispered. “It’s not.”
He looked away first.
The Numbness
Weeks passed.
School enrollment under a new identity.
New uniform.
New accent she was trying to imitate.
Jade — Aria — stopped asking questions.
She stopped mentioning her mother’s name.
At night, she lay awake staring at the ceiling.
Not crying.
Not screaming.
Just replaying fragments.
Her mother’s laugh.
The market bag.
The ten minutes.
The thread.
People whispering:
“She was assaulted.”
“They sewed her mouth shut.”
“It was brutal.”
Jade would press her own fingers against her lips.
As if checking.
As if making sure they were still free.
But she didn’t feel fear anymore.
That scared her.
She felt… nothing.
At school, a girl bumped into her in the hallway.
“Watch it.”
Jade stared at her.
No reaction.
No apology.
The girl frowned.
“Are you mute or something?”
Jade tilted her head slightly.
For a moment, something dark flickered behind her eyes.
Then she walked away.
Empty.
The Breaking Point
One evening, Dominic came home later than usual.
Jade was sitting in the dark.
No lights on.
Just the faint glow from the streetlamp outside.
“Why are you sitting like that?” he asked.
She didn’t respond.
He turned on the light.
She didn’t blink.
“Aria.”
Silence.
He stepped closer.
“What’s wrong with you?”
Finally, she spoke.
“I tried to remember her voice today.”
His chest tightened.
“And?”
“I couldn’t.”
The words were barely audible.
“It’s fading.”
He felt something twist violently inside him.
“You’re just tired.”
“No.”
She looked at him now.
And he saw it.
The numbness.
The confusion.
The hatred trying to form.
“I hate that you made us run all the time.”
Her voice was steady.
“If we had stayed somewhere… maybe she would have had friends. Maybe someone would have helped.”
He inhaled sharply.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know she died alone.”
The accusation landed.
Hard.
“And you weren’t there.”
His voice dropped dangerously low.
“I was trying to protect both of you.”
“You failed.”
The word sliced through the room.
He stepped back as if physically struck.
She stood slowly.
“I don’t cry anymore,” she said. “Is that what you wanted? Strength?”
He shook his head.
“That’s not—”
“I don’t feel anything when I think about her.”
Her eyes glistened — but no tears fell.
“I think something broke in me.”
He whispered, almost to himself,
“It broke in both of us.”
But she was already walking toward her room.
He reached out instinctively.
His hand hovered in the air.
He didn’t touch her.
Because he didn’t know how anymore.
The door closed.
Softly.
And for the first time since Maria died—
Dominic Knox sat on the floor.
And cried.
Not loudly.
Not violently.
But the kind of cry that comes from a man who realizes he is losing the only person he has left.
Not to death.
But to distance.
- Writer
