Up in the Clouds
The cemetery lay under a veil of mist, quiet and pale in the early light. Every sound — the rustle of a leaf, the distant hum of the city — felt like it had travelled miles just to reach me.I walked slowly, the gravel crunching beneath my shoes in uneven rhythm with my heartbeat.
When I reached her, the air seemed to still.Ayah Ferdous.Her name was etched into stone, each letter neat and cruel in its permanence. Dew gathered in the carved grooves, catching the sun like tears that didn't belong to me.
I sank to my knees. The earth was cold and soft beneath my hands, grounding me even as it hollowed something inside me. I placed the bouquet of irises down — her favourite. Violet petals, edges curling slightly from the chill.
"Morning," I whispered. My voice came out raw, scraping the silence. "It's been… a while."
The breeze stirred, carrying the faint scent of pine and damp soil. It brushed against my cheek, almost tender — like she was still here, reaching out from somewhere unseen.
"I don't even know what to say to you anymore," I murmured. "Everything feels wrong when I say it out loud. The house feels too quiet. My paintings look unfinished. Even the air…" I trailed off, my chest tightening. "Even that feels heavier without you."
A memory slipped through — her laughter echoing in the studio, her hair falling forward as she leaned over a half-finished canvas. I closed my eyes."I still hear you, you know," I whispered. "You're telling me to fix the light. To stop overworking the shadows. I keep waiting for your voice to fade, but it never does."
The wind sighed again, ruffling the flowers. A petal tore loose and drifted down onto the grass. I reached out and caught it without thinking. It felt warm for half a second — as if it had been resting on her hand, not mine.
"Do you remember that night?" I said quietly. "When we talked about dying first?"
I let out a small, broken laugh that didn't sound like laughter at all. "You asked what I'd do if you went before me. And I told you my heart would stop beating. That I'd go numb. That the world would drain of colour. You called me dramatic."
My throat burned. "You smiled — that tiny, stubborn smile — and said, Then I can't afford to die first, can I?"
I pressed my fingers to my eyes, but the tears came anyway. "You lied, Ayah." My voice trembled. "You promised me we'd grow old enough to get tired of each other. You said we'd argue about coffee and art styles and faith and… everything. You said we'd figure it out."
The silence around me felt endless. Even the birds had gone quiet.
"I can't forgive you for leaving me like this," I whispered. "But I can't stop loving you either. It's like trying to breathe underwater — painful, impossible, but instinct."
The air felt heavier. The mist thickened, curling around me like something alive. And in it, for a heartbeat, I thought I heard her voice — soft, melodic, as it used to be.
"There are no farewells in this world, Aubrey," she seemed to say. "Not between you and me."
I froze. My chest rose sharply.
"We'll meet again in paradise."
"Don't," I whispered, my words trembling. "Don't say that. I'm not ready for paradise. I'm not ready to let you stay gone."
The silence that followed felt like the air itself was holding its breath. Then, in the faintest echo, came her voice again:
"Then live, Aubrey. Live the way I can't."
My tears fell faster this time. I pressed my forehead to the stone, the chill biting into my skin. "How?" I whispered. "How am I supposed to live when everything beautiful reminds me of you?"
The crow cawed from a distant tree — one long, hollow cry. The mist thinned slightly, and the first true ray of sunlight touched her name.It glowed faintly. Ayah Ferdous.
For a moment, the light made it look alive.
I stayed there until my knees went numb. The world didn't move, and neither did I. The wind passed, gentle, carrying the faintest trace of her perfume — that soft mix of jasmine and rain.
"Until we meet again," I whispered finally, my voice barely more than air. "Don't fade from me yet."
And as I stood, the bouquet shifted in the breeze. One petal caught the sunlight — and in that instant, I could almost swear I saw her smile reflected in it.
Then my phone buzzed. The sound was jarring, cruelly alive. I stared at it, at the bright, indifferent numbers flashing 9:00 a.m.
The world hadn't stopped. It just moved on without her.
I turned back one last time. The camera — if there had been one — would have pulled away then: a lone figure framed by mist, violet petals scattered at his knees, the light catching on tears that refused to fall quietly.
And somewhere in that stillness, I felt her — not gone, not here, just lingering — like the echo of a dream that doesn't end when you wake.
I stayed kneeling by Ayah Ferdous's grave until the sun began to climb higher, burning the mist into soft gold. Her name glowed faintly in the light, then slowly dulled as the shadows shifted — like even the morning couldn't hold her for long.
I stood, brushing the damp from my knees, and looked down one last time. The irises swayed gently in the breeze, their color deepening with the sun. For a second, I thought I saw her — not as she'd been in life, but as memory: all warmth, all light, all unreachable.
"Until we meet again," I murmured.
The words slipped into the wind, carried somewhere I couldn't follow.
The car door shut with a dull thud, and the sound echoed through the empty parking lot.The scent of damp earth still clung to me — Ayah's irises, the dew, the air that had tasted like her absence. It all followed me inside, trapped in the cold leather of the driver's seat.
For a moment, I didn't start the engine.I just sat there, staring at my reflection in the rearview mirror. My eyes looked red. Not the kind of red that comes from crying, but from being hollowed out.
I touched my chest. The rhythm of my heartbeat felt strange — slow, uneven, like a song I couldn't remember the tune to.
The key turned. The car hummed to life.
As I drove out of the cemetery, the sunlight hit the windshield, scattering gold across the dashboard. It was too bright, too alive for how I felt inside. The city sprawled ahead — indifferent, restless. Horns blared. People hurried across streets. A couple laughed by a bus stop.
It was maddening how the world went on.
My thoughts tangled — grief, exhaustion, and the dull ache of something I couldn't name. Kennedy's message from earlier flashed in my mind:"Sir, the visitor should be here by noon. I'll prepare the guest room after my shift."
A visitor. Someone I didn't know. Someone my father had sent, apparently. The idea of another stranger walking into my home made my stomach twist.
My phone buzzed once more on the passenger seat — unread messages stacking like clutter. I ignored them.
Then, a small bakery came into view. Tucked between two tall buildings, its windows glowed a warm amber against the gray morning. I don't even remember deciding to stop. My hands just turned the wheel.
The tires skidded slightly as I parked, the motion jolting me back into the body I'd been trying to escape.
When I opened the door, the smell hit me — butter, sugar, espresso. The kind of smell that should have been comforting, but instead made my throat tighten.
Inside, the bakery was alive with noise — the hiss of the coffee machine, the chatter of customers, spoons clinking against ceramic. The walls were honey-colored, lined with photographs and awards.
But all I could think about was how Ayah once said bakeries were the happiest kind of places. "It's where people come to celebrate," she'd said, smiling. "Birthdays, weddings, beginnings."
And now, here I was — surrounded by beginnings, but dragging the end of something I couldn't let go of.
I ordered absently — a cake I didn't care about — and leaned against the counter, eyes low.
Then — the first click.A flash of white.Then another.
I blinked, disoriented.Cameras. Phones.
Someone gasped softly. "It's him — Aubrey Ardel!"
My pulse spiked. I took a step back. The light felt too harsh, too sudden. I turned toward the counter, my voice strained."Please — I just came for my order."
The bakery owner — a woman with kind eyes and flour on her apron — beamed at me, oblivious to the unease threading through my voice. She lifted the cake proudly."My bakery will be famous now," she said, smiling wide. "The great Aubrey Ardel himself! We'll put this in tomorrow's paper — front page!"
I forced a small smile that didn't reach my eyes. "Yes, ma'am. I appreciate it. If you don't mind, I'd just like to take the cake and leave."
But she was already signaling the photographer."Just one more shot, sir! For our promotion!"
The flashes came faster — white light cutting through my head like thunder inside a glass dome. My breathing quickened.
I reached for my phone, thumb trembling as I answered the incoming call.My father's name glowed on the screen.
"Where are you?" His voice was clipped, impatient.
"In a bakery," I said flatly, pressing a hand against my temple. "Forgot my mask. Now there are cameras. Lots of them."
A pause. Then that familiar, commanding tone."Why didn't you call me sooner? Stay put — I'm sending someone."
"Dad, it's not—"
But the line clicked off.
I exhaled, slow and tired. The sound of my name being whispered by strangers filled the air — Mr. Ardel, one photo please, just one—
And just like that, I felt it again — that unbearable split between who I was and what the world thought I should be.
Behind my eyes, the image of Ayah's grave flickered like film burn. Her voice threaded faintly through the noise:
"Then live, Aubrey. Live the way I can't."
"I'm trying," I whispered under my breath. "But I don't know how."
The bakery door swung open with a chime that felt like salvation. Two men entered — my father's security detail. Their presence parted the crowd instantly.
"Mr. Ardel," one of them said, his tone firm but kind. "Let's get you out of here."
I nodded, unable to speak.
The moment the door shut behind us, the cold air hit like a slap — sharp, clean, real. I inhaled deeply.
The cameras stopped flashing. The noise receded. The only sound left was the hum of the street and the faint rustle of the irises still resting on my passenger seat.
I looked up at the sky — pale, cloud-washed, and endless.
For a moment, I thought I saw her face in the light. Just a flicker. Just enough to keep me breathing.