- Zade Collins:
I don't know how long I sat there on the floor with Blake.
Second turned into minutes and Minutes bled into hours, though the world outside the bedroom blurred into nothing. The only thing I knew was the weight of Blake's warm body against mine, the soft hitch of his breath as it evened out after his sobs, the way his fingers clutched the urn between us like it was the only anchor keeping him alive.
I didn't try to pry it away. I wouldn't have dared. Instead, I held both of them—him and the ashes of Aunt Ainsley, his mom—as though I could protect them from everything, even the cruelty of my own blood, my own mother.
His messy hair was damp, sticking to his forehead, and without thinking I smoothed it back, combing my fingers gently through the strands. Again. And again. A rhythm, a prayer I didn't know how to say out loud.
