Tears In Heaven

Prologue

The sound of the door opening was soft, like the sigh of morning itself. Then came that voice — warm and gentle, wrapping the room in a cozy embrace. The voice that had always been my anchor, my safety.

It was him.

My love.

My life.

“Good morning, my love!” Joash’s smile lit up the doorway as he stepped in, a tray balanced carefully in his hands. “I made your favorite breakfast. Get up and eat — it’s best when it’s hot.” His eyes sparkled with mischief, proud of something so simple.

I blinked, still half asleep, and teased, “You? Cooked? Are you sure this isn’t a delivery?”

He laughed — that deep, easy laugh that filled every quiet corner of the room. We sat together, the smell of coffee and eggs mingling with sunlight streaming through the curtains. Our laughter was loud, our teasing playful, and for a heartbeat, it felt like time

had stopped. Like this moment was forever.

Then everything shifted.

A sound — faint at first, then louder. A voice crying, echoes spilling through the room like a broken record. My chest tightened. The warmth bled away.

“Joash?” I whispered.

His smile faltered. His outline flickered. His voice wavered, thin as static.

“Joash!” My cry pierced the room, desperate, trembling. “I can’t see you! Where are you? Please—don’t leave me!”

The tray slipped from my lap and vanished. His hands were gone. The smell of breakfast, gone. Only silence remained, punctuated by my sobs.

“Joash!” I screamed into the emptiness. Tears blurred my vision. My breath caught in my throat. “Joash!”

And then—darkness.

I woke up to a cold, empty room. My cheeks were wet. My hands shook. My chest ached with the weight of the dream, a heavy burden I couldn't shake off.

It was just a dream.

But oh, how I wished it had been more. How I longed for that dream to be my reality, to be with him once more.

If this is the only way I can be with him — in dreams that vanish like smoke — then let me sleep forever.

“Joash…” I whispered into the silence. “Please.”

But the silence didn’t answer.

The dream was gone. And so was he.

I sat up slowly, chest heaving, grief pressing heavy against my ribs. It was a weight I couldn't bear, a battle I couldn't win. The old apartment above the inn was still there. Only the groan of wooden beams in the morning wind, only the distant rhythm of waves on the Thames. No coffee. No laughter. Just emptiness thick enough to choke on.

For a long moment, I didn’t move. I let grief sit with me, the only constant companion I had left. Then my hand found the letter on the nightstand — the one I had read a hundred times and still didn’t understand.

Joash’s handwriting.

Sealed.

Dated the day before he died.

Addressed to a name I had never heard.

That letter had led me here.

To this town I never planned to see.

At this inn I never planned to stay.

To this man, I never expected to meet.

Zion Alcantara.

The physician, who keeps to himself, speaks little, but notices everything.

I don’t know what he sees when he looks at me. But sometimes, in the silence, I feel he sees too much.

I didn’t come here to fall apart.

But I did.

Now I don’t know if I’m trying to heal… or to love again.

Because grief never really ends.

It only learns how to whisper.

And sometimes, if you listen closely, that whisper leads you somewhere you never meant to go.

To questions, you don’t want to ask.

To a life you never thought you’d live.

And sometimes — even when you least want it — love finds you again.

So I whispered back my own prayer:

That this brokenness may not last forever.

That the scars I carry might one day soften into healing.

The tears too afraid to fall may be caught, held, and turned into something new.

I don’t know if I will ever be who I was.

But maybe—just maybe—God is leading me to who I am meant to become.