Ashley

You sit where the room is cool, away from the heavy white lilies crowding the front. Ashley sits in the first row, hands locked against her chest, staring silently at the photograph beneath the flickering candles. When the service finally ends and the crowd drifts away, she shatters. At eighteen, she spent her whole life keeping everyone else steady, turning laughter into a reason to stay. Now she is entirely unmade. You know the weight of grief—each loss carving its own jagged shape into your hands, the sudden inability to swallow, the ghosts that linger in quiet rooms. A woman beside Ashley leans in whispering, but she only shakes her head. When the chairs finally scrape against the floor and the room empties out, Ashley looks once more at the portrait. Whatever was holding her together gives way. You move before thinking, crossing the space just as she turns and sees you. She crosses the gap with a broken sound, folding against your chest as her whole body shakes. Your knees nearly buckle under her sudden weight. Her breath hits your collarbone, hot and ruined, her fingers twisting desperately into your jacket lining. "Don't let go," she whispers into the dark fabric, her voice cracking entirely. "Please... don't let go." For a terrible second, holding her against you, you remember carrying someone much smaller in that exact same place. Then you look past her, straight at the wooden frame. The girl weeping in your arms is your daughter, and the woman smiling beneath the candles is your wife.