Tears In Heaven

CHAPTER 5: Letters Left Behind

Chapter 5

Letters Left Behind

It had been a month since the funeral. A month of silence where music once lived.

When Agatha finally pushed open the glass doors of the design firm, every sound seemed too loud—the click of heels, the ring of phones, the hushed voices that weren’t really hushed at all.

“Is that her?” someone murmured near the reception desk, voices soft but sharp enough to cut.

“…the bride who never walked down the aisle…” another added, their tone heavy with pity.

“…her fiancé—what was his name—Joash Mendoza, right? The accident…”

“…such a tragedy. She looks so thin.”

“…imagine planning a wedding for months and ending up with a funeral instead.”

The words hovered in the air like smoke—low, hushed, but impossible for Agatha not to hear. Each syllable pressed against her chest, heavy and suffocating. She kept her chin lifted, her steps measured, pretending the sting didn’t reach her, but inside her heart pounded like a drum against her ribs.

Her palms itched to clutch Joash’s letter tucked deep in her bag, the only anchor she had left. Keep walking, Agatha. Don’t let them see you break, she told herself, even as the whispers followed her like shadows.

Then a firmer voice cut through the murmurs. “That’s enough,” said Clara from accounting, arms crossed as she glared at the gossipers. “Show some respect.”

The whispers died instantly. Clara gave Agatha a small nod, a quiet gesture of solidarity. Agatha exhaled slowly, the sting in her chest easing just enough to take one more step forward.

Agatha, with her chin held high, faced the murmurs that chipped away at her composure. Her fingers curled tight around the strap of her bag, a silent testament to her strength and resilience.

Inside her office, a small bouquet of lilies lay on her desk—no note, just quiet sympathy.

“Agatha,” Mia, her closest officemate, slipped in behind her. “You don’t have to be here today. You could’ve called—”

“I needed to,” Agatha said softly, brushing dust from a sketchbook. “I can’t keep pretending I’ll just walk in one morning and see him waiting outside.”

Mia’s eyes glistened, but she nodded. “We’ll miss you. More than you know.”

By afternoon, the boxes were stacked by the door. Her boss, Mr Robertson, stopped by—grey suit, gentle eyes, voice lowered in respect.

“You’ve been one of our best, Agatha. But I understand.” He handed her a sealed envelope—her final paycheck. “When you’re ready to return, this place will always have room for you.”

She swallowed hard. “Thank you. For everything.”

As she wheeled her last box out, her colleagues clapped softly—not applause, but a warm, communal farewell. She couldn’t bring herself to look back, feeling the weight of their support and understanding.

At home, the apartment felt heavier than usual. She laid Joash’s letter on the bed, the weight of his absence and the burden of his words pressing down on her.

Go to London. For us. For you.

Her hands shook as she folded the last of her clothes into the suitcase. Joash’s hoodie went in last. She zipped it shut with a final, trembling breath.

Her hands shook as she folded the last of her clothes into the suitcase. Joash’s hoodie, the one he wore on their first date, went in last. She zipped it shut with a final, trembling breath.

Then her eyes drifted to the corner of the room—the boxes she’d been avoiding for weeks. Joash’s things. His sketchbook, the jacket still smelled faintly of cedar and coffee, his stack of records leaning like they were waiting for him to come home and play them.

She sank to her knees, pulling the first box closer. Every item she lifted carried his ghost with it. The worn baseball cap he’d always throw on before runs. The notebook filled with messy lyrics and scribbles, some unfinished, as though he might come back to complete the lines. Each object a painful reminder of his absence, each one a struggle to let go.

Agatha pressed the book to her chest, tears stinging her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered into the silence. “I can’t keep these here. Not if I’m ever going to breathe again.”

With trembling hands, she began wrapping each piece, carefully, almost reverently, as if the act itself was a goodbye. The sound of packing tape tearing through the air felt cruel, final. She paused over his mug—the one with a chipped handle he always insisted was lucky—and nearly set it aside. But in the end, it went into the box too, each item a precious part of him that she was forced to part with.

When she taped the last box shut, her chest was heavy with guilt and relief tangled together. These weren’t just objects. They were him. And she was sending him away, a mix of guilt for letting go and relief for the closure.

Agatha stood at the Mendoza doorstep, her arms straining under the weight of the boxes. Each was a dagger she had to return, carrying the heavy burden of Joash's scent—his leather jacket, hoodie, and notebooks filled with half-written lyrics.

When his mother opened the door, her eyes fell to the boxes and tightened instantly. "Agatha…" Her voice was sharp, not tender. "Why now? Why are you doing this?"

"Because I can't live with them anymore," Agatha cut sharply, her voice brittle. “I can’t keep them. Not when every corner of my apartment feels like he’s about to walk in. I can't—" Her voice cracked. "I can't keep drowning like this."

She set the boxes down with a resounding thud, shattering the oppressive silence.

His mother's arms crossed, her face hard. "You think you're the only one grieving? Those are my son's things. You're sending him back to me like a burden."

Agatha froze. "A burden?" Her eyes widened in disbelief.

“You think I don’t replay that night every second?” Agatha’s voice cracked, sharp and broken. “You think I don’t wonder if I could have stopped him? I live with that guilt every single day! But don’t you dare put his death on me. He made his choices. He kept secrets—about Zara, about plans he never told me about. I was left with lies as much as love.” Her inner turmoil was a tempest, raging against the accusations.

Mrs Mendoza’s jaw tightened, eyes glittering with a fierce, unyielding rage. “He loved you. But maybe love wasn’t enough. Maybe you should have fought harder for him.” Her anger was a palpable force, thickening the air.

Agatha’s knees trembled, anger spilling over. “I was supposed to marry him. Spend my life with him. You think I wanted this ending? That I chose this? I lost him, too. And I’m still losing him—every damn day I wake up, and he isn’t here!”

The room throbbed with silence, grief clashing like thunder.

It was Joash’s father who finally broke it. His voice was low, steady, but heavy. “Enough.” He stepped closer to Agatha, his expression lined with sorrow. “I’m sorry. For what my son left you with. For the secrets. For Zara. We should have known. Maybe you wouldn’t be standing here suffering twice over if we had.”

Agatha’s shoulders collapsed under the weight of his words. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her emotional breakdown a stark contrast to her usual composure. “I don’t need apologies. I just… I need someone to admit this hurts more than I can carry.”

She looked at his mother, whose arms were still crossed, face set in stone, eyes wet but unyielding.

“I didn’t kill him,” Agatha whispered, her voice trembling but clear. “I loved him. I still do.”

Mrs Mendoza didn’t answer. She only turned away, shoulders stiff, retreating into the kitchen as though even Agatha’s presence was too much to bear.

The silence left behind was louder than words.

"I just… I just want to breathe again," she whispered.

His father embraced her, despite his wife's response. "Then go, Agatha. Go before this house, this city, bury you with him."

The next morning, the plane cut through grey skies. Agatha sat pressed against the window, the world shrinking beneath her.

Her fingers found the letter again, edges soft from being opened too many times. She unfolded it carefully, tracing Joash’s familiar scrawl as though it might steady her.

Promise me you’ll still live. Keep listening to the songs we loved. Keep chasing sunsets. And when it feels impossible, start with one thing: go to London.

She closed her eyes, imagining his voice beside her, low and steady. The hum of the engines became his heartbeat, the clouds outside the window like brushstrokes on a canvas he had left unfinished.

Her chest ached when she tucked the letter back into her bag—but her hands were steadier.

Hours later, London greeted her with drizzle and restless crowds. Taxis splashed along wet streets, and the air smelled of rain and stone.

And just like that, London began.

End of Chapter 5.