But I didn’t drop the urn.
My baby. My last piece of him. My arms locked around it like it was the only thing keeping me alive.
Hugo’s voice thundered through the stairwell, “Are you out of your mind, Thalia? You disrespect my parents in my house?”
I blinked. Swallowed the blood and stayed silent.
He stepped closer, “My mother told me everything,” he spat. “You cursed at her. You spit in her tea. You threatened to kill them.” His nostrils flared. “You think that’s funny? Huh? You think that makes you tough?”
I opened my mouth but all I got was another hit.
Worse. My neck snapped sideways, pain ricocheting down my spine. I tasted metal.
Myra’s voice floated from the staircase like poisoned honey.
“Hugo… don’t hurt her. She’s not worth it, baby. She’s just—emotionally unstable. You know how she gets.”
He turned toward her, and in an instant, that rage melted into tenderness.
Like a switch. Like love; whatever version he offered her was the only language he knew.
“You’re too kind to her,” he said. “That’s why she thinks she can still step out of line.”
Myra pouted. “She’s been acting strange all day. I tried to understand her, but… she just hates me. I can feel it.”
From the couch, Milo didn’t even bother to pretend concern. His headphones hung off his neck, music still playing. He smirked at me.
A show. This was entertainment to him.
None of the maids moved. They gathered at the dining room doorway, whispering like ghosts.
“She’s still holding the urn…”
“She didn’t even raise her hand…”
“I heard she went to the ocean alone… with the ashes.”
My heart was already ash long before they said it.
Hugo’s gaze finally dropped to my arms. To the white urn cradled against my chest like a newborn.
“What’s that?” he asked.
Before I could step back, he ripped it from my hands.
“No!” My voice tore out of me too late.
He held it like it was garbage. Turned it over. Sneered.
“You carried this around the city? Crying to strangers?” He shook it lightly, like he wanted to hear it rattle. “What the hell is this? Another one of your pathetic stunts? Trying to get sympathy?”
My stomach fell. My breath stopped.
“It’s an urn,” he scoffed. “Who died this time? Your dignity?”
Myra let out a soft laugh behind him. Milo snorted like he was watching a movie.
I stood there, blood drying on my lip, face on fire and finally spoke.
“Give that back!”
Hugo raised it higher, taunting. “Why? Who is it supposed to be, huh? You collecting ashes now?”
I didn’t blink.
“It’s Caleb,” I said quietly.
The world went silent. Hugo’s hand froze around the ceramic. Myra’s smile vanished. Milo’s eyes dropped. The maids stopped whispering.
For one long breath, nobody moved.
Then... The urn slipped.
No, he let it go.
“No—!!!”
It hit the tile.
One clean CRACK then the explosion of everything I had left.
Ash. Bone. Shards.
My son scattered across the floor like he had never been held, never been loved, never existed.
The scream ripped out of me. I fell to my knees, fingers trembling, scooping whatever I could into my palms. My nails scraped the floor. I didn’t feel the cuts. I didn’t feel anything except the absence of him.
Behind me, Hugo exhaled like he was annoyed at the dust on his shoes.
“Stop screaming like someone murdered you,” he said coldly. “You’re not the victim here.”
My hands were black with ash. My breath shook. My vision smeared with tears I couldn’t control.
Then he added, “I got the hospital’s update this morning. Caleb is fine. Alive. Sitting up. Smiling. The doctor even sent pictures.”
I froze.
The ashes blurred under me.
Alive?
Impossible.
No… no. I was there. I held him when the monitors stopped. When his chest went still. When the nurse covered him with a sheet I couldn’t move.
“You lied,” Hugo said, stepping closer until his shadow swallowed me. “You faked his death. You drugged him. You staged this whole show because you wanted pity.”
I lifted my face, broken. “H-he died… he died in my arms—”
“Hush,” he snapped. “Fucking save it.”
Myra drifted to his side, “Maybe she did it to hurt me,” she whispered, voice trembling with fake fear. “Maybe she hated me so much she wanted me to feel what she’s feeling.” Her eyes flicked to the ashes on the floor. “Maybe she wanted me to imagine myself like that someday… swept away. Shattered. Ashes.”
She pretended to choke on a sob. Fell into the couch dramatically, shaking like delicate glass.
“Come here, sweetheart,” she whimpered, clutching Milo’s hand. “Let’s go. Mommy can’t breathe with all this… filth. I don’t want you seeing this kind of darkness.”
Milo frowned but didn’t look frightened. Just obedient. A soldier trained young.
But Hugo wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her close.
“Don’t waste tears on that woman,” he murmured against her hair. “You’re the only one who matters. Let’s go upstairs. Leave her there with her mess.”
I was still on the floor, sweeping what remained of my son with trembling hands. Ashes spread across my palms, streaking the tiles like a ghost trying to cling to me.
Milo suddenly broke away from them and charged toward me.
His shoes came down hard, right on the ashes.
“Witch!” he screamed. “You made my mommy cry!”
He stomped again. The ashes scattered further—my boy thrown to the corners of the room.
