Tears In Heaven

CHAPTER 4:When the Music Stops

Chapter 4:

When the Music Stops

The days after Joash’s death merged into a single, unending night. Agatha was lost in a fog of grief, unable to distinguish one day from the next. Time was no longer measured by clocks but by the heavy, hollow ache that gripped her chest each time she awoke.

The funeral arrived too soon, and Agatha found herself moving through it like a ghost, numb and detached from the world around her.

It was held at a church in downtown Los Angeles, a place Joash’s family had attended since he was young. Its tall arches and stained-glass windows threw fractured light across the pews, but to Agatha it felt cold, distant—an echo of something sacred that could no longer reach her.

The pews were filled with people: relatives who flew in from across states, friends from USC, neighbors, colleagues, and strangers whose lives Joash had touched. Their murmurs and sobs filled the air, yet for Agatha, all of it was muted by the overwhelming absence of his presence.

She sat in the front row, a black dress heavy on her shoulders, her hands trembling in her lap. His mother clutched tissues that dissolved in her tears, his father stoic but breaking inside. People came to embrace Agatha, whispering condolences, promises of prayers, but they slipped past her like smoke.

When it was her turn to walk forward, her knees buckled. She pressed her hand against the coffin’s polished wood, her reflection blurred by tears.

“You promised me forever,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “How do I live when you're already gone?”

Inside, among his belongings, was a letter. She didn’t know about it until after the burial, when Joash’s sister slipped it into her hand with trembling fingers.

“He wrote it weeks ago,” she murmured, her voice trembling. “Said it was for you… just in case.” The weight of the letter in Agatha's hand felt like a burden, heavy with the potential to alter her world.

Agatha’s breath caught at the sight of his handwriting—curved and familiar, spelling her name on the front: To my Agatha. But she couldn’t open it. Not yet. She tucked it into her bag, its weight pressing against her like a heavy, but ominous, stone.

After the last mourners left the church, after the final goodbyes beneath the pale Los Angeles sky, she returned to their apartment alone.

The door creaked open into silence. The place still smelled faintly of his cologne, his jacket draped over the couch, his sneakers by the door, waiting for steps he’d never take again. Agatha leaned against the frame, her knees threatening to buckle, as memories pressed in—Joash dancing badly in the kitchen, humming off-key in the shower, scribbling notes for their wedding playlist at the coffee table. Every corner held a ghost.

She sank onto the floor, her heart heavy with the weight of memories that flooded her in sharp, relentless flashes.

“Come on, Hon, just one more chorus,” Joash’s voice echoed in her mind, his grin wide as he grabbed a wooden spoon, singing dramatically into it while she laughed until her sides hurt.

Another memory—him tugging her hand late one night, whispering, “No music? No problem,” as he swayed her gently across the living room floor, their bare feet brushing against the rug.

Or the time he leaned over at the coffee table, pencil between his teeth, muttering, “Do you think Can’t Help Falling in Love is too cliché for the reception?” She’d teased him for being secretly sentimental, and he’d only laughed, eyes crinkling the way she loved.

Her gaze drifted across the room, landing on the untouched stack of wedding preparations piled neatly in a corner: the guest list with names highlighted, swatches of fabric for bridesmaids’ dresses, playlists scrawled on yellow notepads, and the carefully wrapped box that held her veil. Each piece felt like a relic from a life she could no longer touch, a painful reminder of the future that was snatched away.

She crawled closer, fingertips grazing the envelopes and fabric swatches. Her throat tightened.

“Joash,” she whispered into the stillness, her voice trembling. “I don’t know what to do with all of this. With us. With the wedding that never happened.” She clutched a ribbon roll from the pile, pressing it to her chest. “You planned every detail, every song, like you knew how to make ordinary things magical. And now…” Her voice cracked, dissolving into a whisper. “Now I’m left holding it all alone.”

She stared at the veil box, her reflection faint on its smooth surface. “Were you scared too?” she asked softly, as if he were in the room listening. “Because I was. I thought we’d figure it out together—about Zara, about everything. But you never gave me the chance to hear from you.”

The air stayed silent, offering no reply, only the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

Tears blurred her vision. She pressed her forehead against the box and whispered, “We were supposed to have forever.”

The apartment was alive with him, yet unbearably empty.

Days blurred as she began the impossible task of sorting through his things. Folding his shirts felt like erasing him. Boxing up his books felt like betrayal. But somewhere between his guitar picks and sketch-filled notebooks, she found a sealed envelope buried under a stack of papers on his desk.

Her breath faltered. The handwriting was Joash’s—but the name across the front was not hers.

Zara.

The date in the corner was recent—just a day before the accident.

Agatha sat frozen, the letter trembling in her hands. She hesitated, heart pounding, then slid it open. Inside, Joash’s words spilled across the page, raw and urgent:

Zara,

I can’t carry this any longer. I’m coming to London. I need to see you, ask forgiveness, and set right what I broke. Agatha deserves the truth. She deserves all of me, not a man with unfinished shadows. Please—let me make peace with you, with us. Before I begin my life with her, I must face what I left behind.

Her fingers went numb, the letter slipping into her lap.

London. Zara. Forgiveness.

Joash had been planning it all along.

And now, staring at the two letters—one for her, one for another—Agatha felt the ground beneath her shift again. The man she loved, she thought she knew thoroughly, carried a story that hadn’t ended. And somehow, it was now hers to face.

After the funeral, life moved forward for everyone else.

But not for Agatha.

Her days in Los Angeles stretched endlessly. She tried to return to work at the design firm, but her sketches blurred with tears, her once-sharp lines turning into smudges of grief.

“Agatha,” her supervisor said gently one afternoon, resting a hand on her desk. “You don’t have to rush back. Take the time you need.”

“I’m fine,” Agatha whispered, though the sketch before her was ruined with tearstains. She lowered her pencil, ashamed of the lie.

Her colleagues offered small kindnesses—coffee left on her desk, files quietly taken off her plate. But nothing lifted the weight pressing her chest.

Nights were unbearable. The apartment was too quiet without Joash’s humming, his footsteps, his laughter echoing through their walls. Sometimes she played their wedding playlist just to fill the silence, curling up on the sofa with his hoodie wrapped around her like armor.

Once, his sister called.

“Come by for dinner,” she urged. Her voice cracked like she was holding her own grief together by threads. Mom made your favorite.”

Agatha pressed the phone closer, trying not to cry. “ I-I don’t know if I can. If I sit at your table, and his chair is empty…”

A pause. Then Joash’s sister whispered, “I know. It hurts. But we don’t want you to disappear, too.”

Even surrounded by people, she felt alone. Every face reminded her of Joash, every word felt unfinished.

The wedding date came like a cruel joke. Instead of vows and celebration, it was a day of silence. The veil she had chosen lay untouched in a box at the back of the closet. The playlists, the plans, the dreams all turned into ashes in her hands.

That night, she sat on their bedroom floor, surrounded by Joash’s things. His shirts still carried his cologne. His sneakers waited by the door as if he’d step into them any second. She picked up his old leather notebook and ran along the worn spine.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d be gone so soon?” she whispered. Her voice cracked. “We were supposed to fight about what songs to play at the wedding. We were supposed to grow old and keep dancing in the kitchen.”

Her tears blurred the page. Something slipped loose—a folded letter tucked between scribbled lyrics. The ink was faint, but her breath caught at the sight of her name on the front: To my Agatha.

She froze, her heart thundering.

It took months before she finally broke the seal.

His handwriting filled the page, carrying his voice into the room as though he were sitting beside her:

To my Agatha,

I don’t say this enough, so I’m writing it down. You’re my favorite part of every day. Whether you're humming in the kitchen, stealing the blanket in the middle of the night, or laughing so loud that the neighbors probably hear—it’s all my favorite.

I know I hurt you. I know I’ve failed at explaining myself, especially regarding Zara. You think she’s still a shadow between us, and maybe you’re right. Perhaps I should have been clearer, stronger, and better at choosing you openly instead of making you doubt. I’m sorry for every tear I caused, for every night you wondered if I was truly yours.

But Hon, listen—I was going to fix it. That’s what I’ve been working on. I promised myself I’d sit down with Zara, draw the line, make it right. I don’t want ghosts in our marriage. I want us clean, whole, unshaken. Just you and me.

I was looking at our playlist again last night and couldn’t help but smile. Every song feels like a chapter of us. And I can’t wait for the next ones we’ll add—our wedding, honeymoon, all the quiet mornings and late nights.

Thank you for loving me, even when I’ve made it hard. For seeing past my rough edges, for choosing me again and again. I promise to keep choosing you, for as long as I’m given.

Always yours,

Joash

Agatha pressed the letter into her chest, her sobs shaking her body.

“Why would you leave this for me?” she whispered. “How do I live when you’re not here to laugh at me, hold me, fight with me?” With this letter, how am I supposed to live with these things you left unanswered?

Her cries filled the apartment, bouncing against the walls that once echoed with his voice. Yet in his words, something faint stirred—a spark he’d left behind. It had been so long since she felt anything other than the weight of his absence. But now, a glimmer of hope, a whisper of his love, warmed the cold corners of her heart.

London.

End of Chapter 4.