If Only

The mere thought of losing someone so dear was once an absurd concept to me, something I couldn't quite fathom. But now, now that I have experienced it, I understand the depth of the pain that comes with it.

It was the day my grandfather passed away that my world was turned upside down. He was my confidante, my mentor, my friend. He was the only one who ever truly understood me, who always knew how to make me feel better. His death was like a dagger to my heart, and the wound never truly healed.

Every day is a struggle, a constant battle to keep myself together. I can't even begin to imagine the person I would be if I lost someone else. The mere thought of it makes me shudder.

I rarely leave my room, and when I do, it's only to go through the motions of life. I barely speak to anyone, and the laughter that once came so easily is now a distant memory. I can't even bring myself to visit my grandparents' house, the place that held so many happy memories.

I am different now, a shadow of the person I used to be. The light that once shone so brightly within me has dimmed, and I don't know how to get it back. The only person who knew how to make it shine was my grandfather, and he's gone.

The pain is real, and it never truly goes away. It's a constant reminder of what I've lost, and the thought of facing that reality is almost too much to bear. But I have to keep going, for him.

2015

I always used to look forward to summer, the warmth of the sun on my skin and the endless possibilities that came with it. But now, here I am, lying on my bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. The weight of grief is suffocating, and I can't seem to shake it off.

My Gramps, my father's father, was my rock. He was the one who taught me how to ride a bike, and how to make the perfect grilled cheese sandwich. He was my confidant, the one I could always turn to when life got too overwhelming. But now, he's gone, and my world has turned upside down.

The ends of my hair tickle the sides of my neck, a constant reminder of the drastic decision I made in the throes of grief - cutting off my long locks without a second thought. It was an impulsive move, but somehow it felt right. Grief has a way of making us act without thinking, as long as it matches the pain we feel inside.

My grandfather's death was sudden and unexpected, and it's left me feeling empty and lost. For months, I've been trapped in a fog of depression, my days blending into each other in a monotonous cycle of sadness. I see the world through tinted glasses of gray, and the once bright and colorful world is now dull and lifeless.

There's a void inside me, slowly consuming me from within. It's a strange feeling of emptiness, spreading throughout my entire body, leaving me numb to the world around me. I don't want to face the reality that he's gone, that I'll never hear his voice or see his smiling face again. It's too painful to bear.

I find solace in the four walls of my bedroom, where I can hide away from the world and the pain that comes with it. It's big enough to hold all the memories I have of Gramps, and I don't need anything else. I don't want to leave the safety of my room, where I can pretend that everything is still okay.

My parents suggested seeing a therapist, but I couldn't bring myself to go past the fifth session. Talking about my pain only made it more real, and I didn't want to face it. I wanted to keep it locked away, hidden deep inside me where no one could see it. But the pain is always there, lurking just below the surface, waiting to come back and consume me once again. Since then, I isolated myself to where I could have my own safe space. Just me and my music.

The house that used to be my safe haven is now nothing but a painful reminder of everything that has been taken from me. I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to avoid any thoughts of that place. My hair falls in disarray around me, a symbol of my shattered life. It's been months since my Gramps passed away, but the wound in my heart still feels fresh.

My family thinks that talking to me will help me move on from this depressing stage, but they couldn't be more wrong. It's not that easy. Breathing fresh air outside only makes me feel suffocated. Every time I leave my room, I am reminded of all the things I've lost.

They try to encourage me to come out more often, but what's the point? Going out only serves as a temporary distraction from the painful reality. Even if I go out and do something, the knowledge that Gramps is gone will always come back to me, and the crushing sadness will start all over again.

Instead, I find solace in music. I have spent the past few months mastering classical pieces on the piano, music that my grandparents left for me. It's a way to keep their memory alive, to keep a part of them with me. The piano lies outside my door, covered in cloth, a painful reminder of my loss.

The same goes for my grandparents' house. It used to be my favourite place, a sanctuary where I could make memories with Gramps and Lizzy, my cousin. Now, it's just a place of pain, something I can't bring myself to visit. My mother has been urging me to go there, to face my pain, but I can't.

The house is a narrow-lot two-storey building with bulging grey edges and white walls, standing ten feet tall. The backyard is filled with flowers my grandmother grew, and there is enough land to grow trees and edible plants. My grandfather started the garden to make my grandmother feel less homesick when she moved from the Philippines.

It's painful to think of all the memories I made in that house, and how I will never be able to make any more with Gramps. I just want to stay in my room and listen to music, hoping to forget the pain even for a little while.

My grandfather's love for adventure was more than just a passion; it was an insatiable thirst that consumed him. He had inherited a vast fortune from his family, and he wasted no time in using it to fund his travels across the world. He would always return home with souvenirs from his journeys, tangible reminders of the places he had visited and the memories he had made.

But of all the countries he had visited, the Philippines was the one that held a special place in his heart. It was there that he had met my grandmother, a farmer's daughter living a simple life in the countryside. Despite the vast differences in their backgrounds, my grandfather was relentless in his pursuit of her. He wooed her with his chivalry, his sweet talk, and his unwavering determination to prove himself worthy of her love. And in time, she fell for him too.

They married, and for the first time in his life, my grandfather decided to put his wanderlust on hold. He settled down with my grandmother and brought her back to the United States with him. Together, they raised three children, the eldest of whom was my father, born of their love as a half-Filipino, half-American citizen.

But despite the happiness my grandparents had found together, their story was not without its share of pain. My grandmother had struggled to adjust to her new life in America, far from her family and the only home she had ever known.

And as the years went by, my grandfather's health began to fail him.

And then, he was gone.

The sudden knock on my door brought me back to the present, but the memories of my grandparents lingered on. The ache in my chest was all too familiar, the pain of knowing that they were gone and I could never see them again. I longed for the comfort of their embrace, the sound of their voices, the memories we had made together. But all I had now were the souvenirs my grandfather had left behind, tangible reminders of a life that was now lost to me forever.

I hear my mother's voice, but it's distant, like it's coming from underwater.

"Jade?" she says, her voice barely audible. I don't respond right away. I don't want to face her, don't want to look into her eyes and see the disappointment, the worry. But eventually, I turn my head to face the door, and my voice comes out weak and drained.

"Mom?"

She asks if she can come in, and I hesitate. Do I really want her to see me like this? Broken, empty, a shell of the person I used to be? But I don't have the energy to argue, so I say, "Yeah." I reach for the music player on my nightstand, turning down the volume to a dull hum. When I finally prop myself up, I see her standing in the doorway, her brown hair cascading down her shoulders, her face creased with concern.

She sits on the edge of the bed, facing me, and I can't help but notice how much she's aged. The wrinkles around her eyes, the slight sag of her skin. It's a reminder of how much time has passed, how much has changed. But she's still beautiful, and that thought only adds to the weight of my sadness.

"How are you, Jade?" she asks, her voice soft and tentative.

I shrug lazily, my eyes glued to the messy sheets covering my bed. "Fine...I guess."

I feel her gaze on me, searching for some hint of how I'm really feeling. But I can't give her that. I can't let her see the pain, the emptiness, the darkness that's taken over me.

"I miss you, Jade," she says suddenly, and her words cut through me like a knife. "I miss how you used to talk to me, tell me about your day, your problems. I miss your laughter. I miss having you with us at dinner..."

"But I always eat dinner with you," I say, my voice monotone, devoid of any emotion.

"Yes, but it's like you're not really there," she replies, and her voice breaks a little. "You're always shutting us down."

I don't say anything, don't want to argue, don't want to make it worse.

"Jade...I miss talking to you," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Your father won't be home for a few weeks, and I don't have anyone to talk to."

I stare down at my crossed legs, the baggy shirt barely covering my skin. I feel like I'm suffocating, drowning in my own pain. And I can see it in her eyes, the exhaustion, the resignation. She's given up on me. And I can't blame her.

"You can always talk to Glenda," I suggested, my voice hollow with pain. My mind was clouded with grief and despair, and I couldn't bring myself to care much about anything else.

Glenda, our long-term house maid, had already grown affectionate towards us, but even her efforts to get me out of my room had failed.

I found myself playing with the sheets absentmindedly, my fingers tracing over the fabric as if it were the only thing keeping me grounded.

"I just really don't feel like talking. That's all," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes, sweetie, it's just... I miss my daughter." Her voice wavered at the end, and I could see the tears brimming in her eyes. She tried to hold them back, but they spilled over, sliding down her cheeks like tiny rivulets of pain.

"Sweetie... I know..." Her words were careful, too careful, and I wondered if she truly understood what I was going through. "I know that I may never be able to understand the pain you're dealing with right now..." With that, I hesitated, unsure if I wanted her to continue.

"...but at least, let me be there for you so you could share your pain, honey." She managed to make me lift my face up to look at her, and I saw a flicker of something in her expression that made me feel like she truly cared.

"Honey, you can always talk to me. You should not keep your pain all to yourself... We-" She broke off suddenly, her shoulders heaving as she took a deep breath before continuing, "We miss Gramps, too..." Her eyes were slightly red, and I felt a pang of something deep inside me.

At the sound of his name, my heart clenched painfully in my chest, as if someone had reached in and squeezed it tight. The pain seeped into my every nerve, my every fiber, until I could feel it pulsing through my body like a living, breathing thing. And then, with no hesitation, I let the pain spread all over me, letting it consume me completely.

It was a feeling I had become all too familiar with over the past few months, a feeling of overwhelming grief and loss that had left me numb and empty inside. But now, with my mother's words echoing in my ears, something shifted inside me. The pain was still there, raw and unyielding, but I felt a faint glimmer of hope in the darkness.

My mother watched me with surprise as tears spilled down my face, warm droplets tracing their way down my numb cheeks. But before she could react, I was lunging forward, burying my face in her chest as sobs racked my body.

She held me tight, her arms enclosing me in a comforting embrace, and I felt the weight of all my grief and pain lift off me, if only for a moment. Her hands caressed my back in a gentle, soothing rhythm, murmuring soft words of comfort as I cried.

For months, I had bottled up my emotions, suppressing them in a desperate attempt to keep myself together. But now, in my mother's arms, I felt the dam finally burst, and every emotion I had held back came flooding out.

"There you go, sweetie. Let it all out... I'm here, I'm here," my mother whispered, her voice a soft murmur in my ear. Her other hand found its way to my head, gently running her fingers through my hair.

For a moment, I let myself bask in the warmth of her embrace, feeling the weight of my grief slowly lift off me. It was a small victory, but it was a victory.

My body was wracked with sobs as I clung to my mother, the tears streaming down my face in an unending torrent. The pain that I had been hiding for so long was finally bursting forth, a dam that could no longer contain the flood of emotions that I had been holding back for months.

My mother, always the empathetic one, held me close without a word, resting her chin on top of my head as she let me cry. I knew that, under any other circumstance, she would have been commenting on my sudden change of demeanor, but now she was content to just be there for me.

Through my tears, I managed to choke out the words that I had been holding back for so long. "I don't know what to do, mom... It hurts too much..."

She kissed the top of my head and held me even tighter, her comforting presence offering a small measure of solace in my time of need. I buried my face in her shoulder, staring blankly at the wall as I poured out all the emotions that I had been keeping from my parents.

Every last bit of water that my eyes produced was emptied, and as the sobs slowly subsided, I found myself lost in a sea of memories of my Gramps. My mother's embrace was the best comfort I had ever received, and I longed to linger in it just a bit longer.

But eventually, I had to let go, and my mother pulled away from me with a gentle smile. "Sweetie, I'm still here. You still have someone you can lean on..." Her words offered a glimmer of hope, but the pain still lingered, a constant ache in my heart that refused to be soothed.

*****

My mother's offer of tea was one that I couldn't refuse, even though it meant coming out of my room and facing the world again.

With a heavy heart, I dragged myself to the kitchen and slumped onto one of the chairs at the dining table, still reeling from the weight of my grief.

My mother was boiling a pot of water, but her eyes were fixed on me as I fidgeted with a crumpled tissue in my hands, trying to wipe away the tears that still lingered on my cheeks. She handed me another tissue and I reluctantly took it, feeling exposed and vulnerable in her presence.

The silence between us was deafening as we both avoided eye contact, each lost in our own thoughts. But eventually, my mother broke the ice with a gentle touch, reaching out to hold my hand and offer words of comfort.

"I'm really glad you're starting to open up to me, Jade," she said softly, her voice full of warmth and concern.

I didn't know how to respond. My emotions were a jumbled mess, and I felt like I couldn't even articulate what was going on inside me. But the way my mother looked at me, with such love and acceptance, made me feel like I could trust her with anything.

As she handed me a cup of tea, I noticed the small detail of the milk added to it, a gesture of care that warmed my heart. Taking a sip, I savored the familiar taste of tea mixed with milk, the way my grandfather used to make it for me.

The warmth of the tea seeped through my body, and for a moment, I felt a sense of peace. It was the first time I had felt anything close to calm since my grandfather had passed away. The sound of the boiling water, the clink of the cup on the saucer, the gentle hum of the refrigerator - all these ordinary sounds were suddenly so comforting.

With each sip, I felt my guard drop, and before I knew it, words were spilling out of my mouth, raw and unfiltered. It was the first time I had opened up to anyone about the depth of my pain, and as I spoke, I felt a weight lifting off my chest.

My mother listened, her eyes never leaving mine, and I knew then that I wasn't alone. Even in the darkest moments, she was there, ready to hold my hand and offer comfort. And for that, I was grateful.

"I'm sorry." The words fell from my lips, heavy with regret and pain. My mother's warm smile was a stark contrast to the turmoil raging inside of me. "I'm so sorry if I hadn't tried to reach out to you in the past months..."

Tears prickled at the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill over. If it wasn't for my mother's persistent efforts to pull me out of my self-imposed isolation, I would still be trapped in my room, drowning in my own despair. Now that I was finally out, guilt gnawed at my insides like a hungry beast.

"I never meant to shut you out," I whispered, setting my teacup down with trembling hands. Summoning all my courage, I lifted my gaze to meet my mother's. "I'm sorry, Mom. So sorry for everything."

She reached across the table to take my hand in hers, her touch soothing and comforting. "It's okay, sweetie. I completely understand."

But did she really? Could she truly understand the depths of my pain and the darkness that had consumed me?

"No," I shook my head, tears streaming down my face now. "If you hadn't persisted enough, I would still be locked up in my room, and now that I'm finally out, I couldn't bring myself up to tell you how sorry I am for isolating myself away from you."

The weight of my shame was crushing, threatening to drag me under. I struggled to keep my emotions in check, knowing that if I let go, I might never be able to pick up the pieces.

"I never really minded that, honey. I just really miss having you talk about your day and all... and you know I'm not getting any younger, the silence inside this house is quite boring me."

My mother's words were like balm to my wounded soul, and I let out a shaky laugh through my tears. "You sound like a teenager, Mom."

"And your dad won't be home for the next month so... I never really had someone to talk to," she continued, her voice wistful.

My heart sank at the mention of my father, and my mood soured instantly. I pushed my tea away, my appetite gone.

"He's always away," I said, my voice bitter.

"He's away because he has work," my mother defended, but we both knew that wasn't the real reason.

"He's away because of work, which I totally understand, but not making time for Gramps or even attend his funeral is another thing..."

My father's absence at my grandfather's funeral was a wound that refused to heal. How could he not spare a day or two to say goodbye to his own father? It was unfathomable, and it made my blood boil with anger.

"He should have been there," I said, my voice low and filled with venom.

"Jade, we talked about this," my mother chided gently.

"Yeah, whatever," I muttered, pulling away from the table and crossing my arms over my chest.

I couldn't stand the thought of how someone could put their work above their family, even in death. It was the ultimate betrayal, and it made me question everything I thought I knew about my father.

The burden of having a father consumed by his obsession with money was a constant weight on my shoulders. On the surface, he claimed to have noble intentions of helping those in poverty, offering them a glimmer of hope by providing a year's worth of support. But beneath that facade was a man who cared only for the profit he could reap from the volunteers.

My father's true nature became all too clear when he callously disregarded my grandfather's funeral. It was a stark reminder that, despite his supposed generosity, he didn't truly care about anyone but himself. He was willing to sacrifice his own family for the sake of his own ambitions, and the thought of it made my blood boil.

My grandfather had been a man of adventure, always seeking out new experiences and discoveries. My father followed in his footsteps, but for entirely different reasons. There was no joy or wonder in his travels, only the relentless pursuit of wealth.

The contrast between their motivations couldn't have been starker, and it was a bitter pill to swallow. The man who was supposed to be a role model, a mentor, had become an object of disdain. I couldn't help but wonder what my grandfather would think of his son's actions, and the thought filled me with a sense of anger and betrayal.

The truth was undeniable: my father was driven by money, and nothing else.

My father, the founder of the 'H.O.P.E' organization, which stood for 'Helping Others Prosper through Empowerment', is known to the world as a hero, a philanthropist, and a beacon of hope for the less fortunate. But to me, he is just a man who craves the spotlight and the money that comes with it.

When he started the organization, it was just a group of men with a mission to help people in need. But it wasn't because of a deep sense of compassion or empathy, it was for the validation and recognition that came with it.

He traveled to different countries, handing out aid and necessities to the people. But it was always done with a camera crew in tow, ready to capture every moment for publicity. He used his connections in the entertainment industry to earn more money and fame, turning his organization into a profitable business.

As the organization grew, so did his ego. He basked in the praises of others and reveled in the attention he received. It was never about the people he was helping, it was always about him and his image.

'H.O.P.E' may have saved countless lives and brought hope to many, but to me, it will always be a symbol of my father's insatiable thirst for fame and fortune.

The rules were pretty simple.

It was basically a group of extremely wealthy men to scout for volunteers with unique skills, train them for years, and send them out to the public to earn money while using a significant portion of their earnings to help those in need.

As one of the Founders, they should recruit their volunteers. A founder can have as many volunteers as they want. They journey around the world just to look for them. There's not any racial discrimination, as long as someone is capable, they can become a volunteer.

Recruiting for the organization is not just about selecting anyone, but rather finding those who possess unique talents or skills that could make them valuable to the cause. Singers, musicians, artists, writers, actors, and other creative individuals are highly sought after. It's a highly competitive process and those who make the cut are put through rigorous training programs that last for years.

My father's organization, H.O.P.E, has become more than just a charity, it's now a brand-new industry that's taking the world by storm. With a little push, it could even become the biggest talent industry in the whole world. But at what cost? The thought of my father profiting off of the talents of others, even if it's for a good cause, leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

For several years, the founders invest their time and resources to ensure their recruits are well-trained, even sending them to prestigious schools and learning centers to hone their skills. The founders bear the cost of their training and other expenses. When the recruits are deemed ready, they are dubbed 'volunteers' and dispatched to big cities like Los Angeles, New York, and Europe, where they are provided a platform to showcase their talents. Some founders build galleries to promote their artists' paintings while others secure record deals for musicians, holding concerts for a cause worldwide, effectively turning them into global celebrities with a fan base that translates to more income. For writers, some founders even publish their works.

Each volunteer is expected to earn a specific amount in a month.

Here's the catch. The funds collected by volunteers are divided as:

50% of the total earnings are directed back to the organization and channeled towards charitable causes such as supporting people in need, orphanages, and other charitable institutions.

30% of the funds go back to the founder who recruited the volunteer, compensating them for the investment of time and money on the volunteer.

Finally, the remaining 20% is allocated to the volunteer themselves.

Volunteers are not just signing a contract to serve the organization for five years, they're signing away their lives. Five years may seem like a short amount of time, but when you're in the thick of it, it's a lifetime. The organization becomes your everything. Your identity, your purpose, your life. And all the while, the founders sit on their thrones, basking in the glory of their power and wealth, while the volunteers, suffer.

But after five years of servitude, they're given a choice. A choice that's supposed to be liberating, but feels more like a trap. Renew their contract, and become an official member of the organization, with all the power and privilege that comes with it. Or choose their own path, and risk being cut off from the only life they've ever known, with no support or guidance.

As a Legacy-in-Training -that's what they call the offspring of the founders- I'm supposed to carry on my father's legacy and inherit his position as the head of the organization. But I don't want to be like him. I don't want to be obsessed with money and power. But the weight of my responsibility is crushing. At only 18 years old, I'm expected to recruit for the organization, to find people who are willing to give up their lives for this cause. It's a heavy burden to bear.

I can still remember my grandfather's voice, though. His words, "Money can't control everything. It is the heart that knows everything," echo in my mind. I wish he were still here, to guide me, to help me find my own way. But he's gone, and I'm left to navigate this treacherous path on my own.

I slowly descended the stairs, taking in every word my mom said, and the weight of her voice seemed to grow heavier with every passing moment. My heart sank at the mention of my grandparent's house. The thought of it being in a state of disrepair filled me with an overwhelming sense of sadness.

"What do you mean?" I asked, hoping that maybe it wasn't as bad as she made it seem.

"I mean, the house has been neglected for a while now. There are cracks in the walls, the roof is leaking, and some of the windows are broken. I didn't want to tell you before, but I think you need to see it for yourself."

I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes. The thought of my grandparent's home falling apart was almost too much to bear. It was the one place where I always felt safe and loved, and now it was in shambles.

I almost want to go immediately, but a sharp pain slices through my chest like a knife, and suddenly I'm flooded with questions. Am I really ready for this? Can I handle facing the world and all of the pain and uncertainty it holds? Can I bear to see what has become of the house where I made so many precious memories with my beloved grandparents? The thought of it all makes my head spin and my heart ache, and I'm not sure if I'm strong enough to face it all.

"I... I-I I don't know..."

My mom was quiet and she stood there, looking at where I am, patiently waiting for whatever I decided to do.

My mom stood there in silence, her gaze fixed on me as I stood contemplating my next move. She didn't pressure me to make a decision or say anything to sway me one way or the other. Instead, she waited patiently, allowing me to come to my own conclusion in my own time.

"I... I can't handle this, mom," I muttered, my voice quivering with fear and uncertainty. "I don't know what to do... I don't know what to think."

My mother climbed up the stairs and enveloped me in her arms, holding me close as tears streamed down my face.

"It's okay, sweetie," she whispered, her words a balm to my wounded heart. "You don't have to do anything you're not ready for. Just know that I'm here for you, always."

But her comforting words couldn't dispel the gnawing ache in my chest. The thought of my grandparents' house haunted me, and I couldn't help but wonder what had become of it since their passing. Would it still be standing? Would their cherished possessions still be there, waiting for me to claim them?

The weight of responsibility crushed me, knowing that I would soon inherit the house and all its memories. But what had I done to protect it? To honor my grandparents' legacy? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

A sense of shame washed over me, and I couldn't help but ask myself, "What am I even doing?"

"I-I'll go see it," I said quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.

My voice quivered as I spoke, my heart pounding in my chest. The thought of facing the remnants of my grandparents' home was daunting, but I couldn't bear the thought of losing the last tangible connection to them.

My mom's eyes widened at my request, and for a moment, she seemed to hesitate. But then she took a deep breath and nodded firmly.

"Of course, honey. I'll be right there with you. We'll face it together."

The weight of her words was not lost on me. My mom had always been my pillar of strength, but even she couldn't erase the pain and emptiness that had been growing inside me since my grandparents passed away.

As I hugged her tightly, tears streaming down my face, I couldn't help but feel grateful for her unwavering support. She was the only one I had left in this world, and I knew I could count on her to stand by my side no matter what.

*****

With a heavy heart, I agreed to go to my grandparents' house on the same day. It was an impulsive decision, but I couldn't bear the thought of letting go of the only thing left of my grandparents. Besides, in just two years, the house would be named after me, and it was my responsibility to keep it in good shape.

As I got ready to clean the house, I didn't waste too much time picking out my clothes. I knew I would get dirty anyway, so I grabbed a random white shirt and my old black jeans. I tied a red bandana around my head out of habit, something I always did when I wore a white shirt. But as I looked at myself in the mirror, a strange feeling washed over me.

It was my hair.

With my short hair ending just above my shoulders, it looked strange to tie a bandana around my head. It didn't look as pretty as it used to when I had long hair. Should I take it off? But Glenda was already knocking on my door, signaling that it was time to go. It was too late to make a decision, so I left it on.

*****

Standing before the double panel doors, I could feel my heart pounding against my chest. Leaving the house was something I never thought I would do again. My mom stood by my side, her comforting smile urging me to take the next step. But could I do it? Could

I face the outside world after being cooped up for so long?

Finally, I gathered my courage and pushed open the doors. The warm wind whipped my hair back, reminding me that I was truly outside. Stepping onto the stone path, I was greeted by the brick stone fountain at the center of the curving pavement. The sound of the water was soothing, but it only served as a reminder of what I was leaving behind.

While my mother went to retrieve the cars, I couldn't help but stare at the fountain. The water seemed to flow endlessly, always circling back to where it started. Was that what my life would be like now? Always coming back to where I started?

In the car, my mother and Glenda discussed what we would need to clean up my grandparents' old house. I didn't want to feel useless, so I insisted on joining them at the hardware store.

As we walked in, the smell of fresh wood and tools filled my nostrils. It was a strange sensation, being out and exploring once again.

But as we walked further into the store, the realization hit me that my grandparents were no longer with us. It was just me, my mother, and Glenda. No Gramps to guide me or comfort me in this strange new world.

As I stood there, my heart racing and my head spinning, I couldn't help but feel like I had made a terrible mistake. What was I doing here? Outside of the safety of my home, where I could control everything and make sure that nothing could hurt me.

But now, everything felt dangerous and out of control. The air felt thick and oppressive, making it hard to breathe. The world around me seemed to spin out of control, leaving me feeling lost and helpless.

I tried to call out to my mom and Glenda, but my voice failed me. They were nowhere to be seen, and I felt like I was all alone in the world.

That was when I saw the shelf, looming tall and solid against the chaos of the store. I stumbled towards it, desperate to find something to hold onto before I fell.

But instead of finding solid ground, I found myself crashing into someone else. I felt their chest against my face and heard the clatter of metal cans as they hit the ground.

"Oops," the person I bumped into said, to which I learned was a boy.

I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment as I tried to apologize, but my words were cut off by my mother's voice calling out to me.

She pulled me away, and I stumbled after her, feeling like I had made a fool of myself in front of everyone.

As we left the store, I couldn't help but steal a glance back at the boy who had helped me. He was cleaning up the mess I had made, his expression kind and understanding.

But all I could think about was how clumsy and helpless I felt.

*****

Standing in front of my grandparents' house, I hesitated. It had been so long since I set foot in this place, and now, I wasn't sure if I wanted to continue walking. As the gate opened, the house loomed before me, designed to look like a narrow lot house despite the large land it stood upon. The white paint that used to adorn the walls had now turned yellowish due to a lack of maintenance.

Taking a step inside, the smell of freshly mowed lawn filled my nostrils. The foot trail led me to the entrance of the house proper, which was only a few yards away from the gate. Unlike our house, there was no need to walk a great distance from the gate to the doorstep.

Hesitation consumed me, and I couldn't shake off the feeling of disturbing the peace of the house I used to love. The thought recurred from the back of my mind, causing me to stop in my tracks.

"Sweetie, are you okay?" my mother's meek voice chimed in from behind me, causing me to jump slightly. I recomposed myself before answering, "I-I'm fine, mom..."

Encouraging me, she nodded her head towards the entrance of the house where Glenda stood, handing all our stuff to Chandler. A little older than me, Chandler was probably 18 or 19, but I couldn't remember. He gathered all our stuff from Glenda, his hair slightly outgrowing on his face, framing his strong complexion. Chandler was slightly pale, considering the slightly harsh climate, but he sent me a warm smile before disappearing through the door.

He was the housekeeper my dad hired a few months ago to maintain the house, the person who had stayed behind while I took a hiatus and all cooped up in my own little world.

As I stood frozen in the doorway, the weight of the emptiness in the house settled in my bones like a leaden cloak. The familiar warmth and joy that used to fill the air were now absent, replaced by a hollow chill that echoed through the empty halls. It was as though the very essence of the house had been drained away, leaving only a shell of what it once was.

My eyes roamed over the shelves and the trinkets and treasures they held. They were the same as I remembered, yet somehow different. The memories of my childhood flooded my mind, memories of running around the house, exploring every nook and cranny, asking my grandparents questions about every object that caught my eye. But now, everything was covered in dust, untouched and unloved.

The realization hit me like a sledgehammer. I had been avoiding this place for too long, too afraid to confront the reality of what had happened. The house was in shambles, left to decay without anyone to tend to it. The guilt and shame of my neglect made my hands clench into fists, and I felt the urge to flee, to run away from the pain and the memories.

But then, my mother's voice interrupted my thoughts, jarring me back to reality. She was calling me, urging me to come inside and help with the chores. I hesitated for a moment, wondering if it was worth it, if I could face the daunting task of cleaning up and restoring the house to its former glory.

In the end, I decided to stay, to face my fears and help my mother and Glenda with the work. It was the least I could do for my grandparents, who had loved this place with all their hearts. As I looked around the empty rooms, I realized that the only way to honor their memory was to bring life back to the house, to make it a home again, filled with warmth and love. And with that thought,

I took my first step forward, ready to face the pain and the memories that lay ahead.

Would Grams and Gramps be happy if I abandoned their legacy and moped in my room like a caveman?

I forced myself to swallow the lump in my throat and walked further into the house. Glenda and my mother were already busy sweeping and dusting, but I couldn't find it in myself to join them. Instead, I wandered around aimlessly, searching for any trace of the warmth and love that used to fill this place.

My feet led me to a closed door that I used to love to open every day, and I felt a sense of dread wash over me. The hallway was darker and narrower, and dust had accumulated on the floor. My hand reached out to twist the knob, almost against my will, and I pushed the door open. The room was dark, and my hand fumbled for the light switch. When the room was illuminated, I gasped at what I saw.

The Grand Piano my Gramps had bought... for me.

He had known my love for music since the beginning. We had gone on an adventure together and stumbled upon a music shop. I fell in love with one of the pianos, and Gramps couldn't be more supportive of teaching me. On my birthday, he surprised me with the gift of a lifetime, and I was the happiest person alive.

But now, the sight of the piano filled me with pain. I remembered all the times I sat here and played passionately, losing myself in the music with my grandfather. Now, I could never bring myself to play it again, for fear of being consumed by my grief.

As I ran my finger over the smooth cloth that covered the piano, tears streamed down my face. My mother's voice calling my name broke me out of my reverie, and I quickly wiped away the tears, trying to hide my pain.

"I'm sorry, I was just about to start cleaning," I mumbled under my breath as I frantically searched for something to do, anything to avoid the piercing gaze of my mother. The music sheets strewn across the room offered a momentary distraction, so I scrambled to gather them and shove them into their designated cabinet.

But my mother's voice cut through the air like a knife, slicing open my carefully constructed facade.

"This used to be your favorite place," she said, her eyes wandering around the room. I froze, my heart pounding in my chest.

I tried to brush off her words, to pretend like they didn't hurt me, but they cut deep. This room, once a source of joy and comfort, now felt like a prison. Memories of my grandfather flooded back, taunting me with their sweetness and reminding me of what I had lost.

"We should be cleaning," I said, my voice trembling as I busied myself with the dust-covered Grand Piano. I ran my fingers over the cloth covering it, feeling the weight of my grief like a physical presence.

"I could help you sort things out in here"

My mother's sudden offer to help caught me off guard. Despite my best efforts to push her away, she remained a constant presence in my life, always willing to help even when I didn't deserve it. I watched as she crossed the room and began to clean, feeling a mix of guilt and gratitude wash over me.

As I unpacked the boxes of music sheets and placed them neatly on the shelves, my mind wandered to memories of my childhood.

The trophies lining the shelves reminded me of the piano contests I had won as a child, of the praise and admiration I had received.

But those memories now felt distant and hollow, empty shells of a life I no longer had.

I looked over at my mother, her face lined with the weariness of years of struggle and heartache. Despite my mistreatment of her, she had never given up on me. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes as I realized how much I had taken her for granted, how much I had hurt her.

"Mom?" I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you." The words felt inadequate, but they were all I could manage.

A small smile crept onto my mother's face, and for a moment, the weight of our shared pain felt a little lighter. Together, we worked to clean the room that had once been my sanctuary, and although the ache in my heart remained, it felt like maybe, just maybe, I could start to heal.

*****

The day had been excruciatingly long, filled with the arduous task of cleaning. My body ached, and I could feel every muscle protesting as I sat on the plush carpet in the expansive living room. The house was far too large for just the two of us, a habit my father had inherited from my grandfather, who believed that size mattered more than practicality. It didn't matter if there were only a few people living in the house, as long as it was grand, it was worth having.

As I stretched my arms above my head, attempting to soothe the throbbing pain, I couldn't help but wonder why we even bothered with such a large house. It was as though the empty rooms echoed with the memories of a family that no longer existed.

But today was different. Today, I had spent the day working hard, something that had become an unfamiliar feeling over the past few months. I had spent my days cooped up in my room, lost in my own world of pain and anguish. Today, however, I had pushed myself to the brink, and it was starting to show. The sweat had dried on my back, and my body was begging for rest.

As I yawned, fighting the urge to collapse onto the floor, Glenda entered the room, carrying a few items that she needed to put away. I offered to help her, but she declined, insisting that I needed some fresh air after pushing myself so hard. And she was right, I did need some air.

I had forgotten what it felt like to be outside, to feel the cool breeze on my skin. It had been so long since I had ventured into the backyard, and the thought of doing so now was both terrifying and exhilarating. As I made my way outside, I felt a rush of emotions flood over me. Memories of happier times mixed with the pain of the present, creating a feeling of overwhelming sadness.

I decided to drop my phone off to my mom's bag that she left on the kitchen counter and proceeded outside.

I made my way to the back door that led to the backyard. The sliding doors weren't that smooth to slide anymore, but I try my best to pull them open.

The cooling wind hits me directly to the face, slightly freezing my whole body. I stepped out of the door and started to walk towards the yard, the sun directly facing me.

All the exhaustion that I've felt for over 3 months seemed to dissipate as I took in the liberating sight of green adorning the backyard.

I inhaled deeply, relishing the crispness of the air as it filled my lungs. It was a welcome respite from the stuffiness of the house. As I gazed around the backyard, my eyes fell on the trees my grandparents had planted years ago. They looked forlorn and forgotten, their branches stretching out as if reaching for something they could no longer have. I couldn't help but feel guilty for neglecting them.

"I'm sorry," I murmured, my voice barely audible over the rustling leaves. It was a habit I had developed over the years - apologizing to inanimate objects that I had failed to take care of.

But my moment of introspection was abruptly shattered when a putrid odor hit my nostrils. I gagged, trying to suppress the cough that threatened to escape my lips. The smell grew stronger with each passing moment, overpowering the scent of the trees and the wind.

"What the hell is that?" I muttered, my eyes narrowing in disgust. And then, I heard it - a hissing noise that sounded like someone was spraying something. The sound was coming from beyond the concrete walls that marked the boundaries of the property.

Without thinking, I made my way towards the gate that led to the outside world. As I approached it, a feeling of unease settled in the

pit of my stomach. I knew I shouldn't be doing this, but my curiosity always got the better of me.

As I peered through the small opening in the gate, my heart sank. There was a guy - a tall guy - standing on the other side. He was spray painting the walls with reckless abandon, his movements fluid and confident. I watched in horror as he defaced the pristine white surface with colorful patterns and designs. And then, I saw it - a duffel bag filled with spray paint cans lying beside him.