Chapter 10
The west wing reopened slowly.
I almost kept it closed.
Old instinct.
Avoidance disguised as respect.
Mirella challenged me.
Not directly.
She said:
“Blythe keeps asking when she can see the sewing room.”
I looked at her cane.
“You want to go back?”
“No.”
Honest.
“But she does.”
Different.
So we returned.
The corridor smelled new.
Fresh plaster.
Replaced timber.
No smoke.
The blue sewing room door had been removed entirely during repairs.
Good.
Not symbolism.
Fire damage.
Still good.
Blythe entered first.
Stopped.
Then:
“Different.”
“Yes.”
She touched the wall where Eliana once kept fabric samples.
Nothing there.
I asked:
“What should this room be?”
She thought.
“Art.”
Fine.
Not shrine.
Not nursery.
Not memorial.
Art.
We brought a table.
Paper.
Paint.
Mirella sat near the window because her leg still tired easily.
I stood uselessly until Blythe handed me a brush.
The first picture she painted was terrible.
Three people with enormous heads.
Me.
Her.
Mirella.
Then a fourth above us.
“Mommy?”
She nodded.
No one corrected.
No one said move on.
No one said dead people should leave rooms.
The drawing stayed on the wall for months.
Then Blythe replaced it herself with a horse.
That taught me more than Honora ever could.
Memory does not need adults to force its expiration.
Children move naturally when they feel safe enough.
May you like
The problem was never that Eliana remained.
The problem was everyone trying to control how long she was allowed to.
