The world was dim when David opened his eyes. Morning hadn't fully arrived, but the sky outside the window had softened into that pre-dawn gray that only ever felt like mourning. He stayed still for a moment, unsure if it was the cold air or the memory of yesterday that made his skin ache.
Zayan had said he had something to tell them.
David got up slowly, as if the weight of that promise lived in his spine. Downstairs, he found Meher already sitting at the table, cradling a mug of untouched tea. Her eyes flicked to him but didn't linger.
"They'll be here soon," she said softly.
He nodded. No more words passed between them.
---
When Zayan arrived with his parents, the house shifted. It wasn't a loud shift—it was like a held breath, one that had been trapped for far too long. The living room felt smaller than usual as everyone settled into silence, the ghosts of the house taking their places in the corners.
Zayan sat on the edge of the couch, his hands fidgeting with a loose thread on his sleeve. His mother's eyes were red, as if she'd cried all morning. His father looked like he was holding a dam behind his eyes.
"I'm sorry," Zayan began, voice cracking on the second word. "For what happened. For not saying anything earlier. But I… I couldn't."
David exchanged a glance with Meher. She gave the smallest nod.
"You can now," she said.
Zayan took a breath, deep and shaking. "The day Mavia died… he wasn't just wandering around. He came to me. At the park. We hadn't talked in weeks, but he texted that morning, said he wanted to see me. I thought… maybe he wanted to fix things."
His mother's lips parted, trembling. "Fix what?"
Zayan looked down. "We'd had a fight. A stupid one. I said something about his zine, about how he was using it to lash out at people instead of actually talking to them. He got really quiet after that. I didn't think it would matter."
The silence in the room turned into something sharper. More brittle.
"He showed me a notebook," Zayan continued. "Said it was his last one. Said he was done writing. That… that it didn't matter anymore. I tried to tell him it did. That *he* did."
He paused, covering his mouth with his hand, as if the rest of the words might break him.
"But he looked at me like he'd already disappeared. Like he was already gone."
Meher inhaled sharply.
"I asked him to stay," Zayan said. "To come home with me. But he said no. Said he needed to go back—to the greenhouse."
David's voice was quiet. "The one near the orchard?"
Zayan nodded. "It was our place once. We used to go there after school when things got too loud. He said he just needed to sit there for a while."
"And then?" David asked.
"I left. I shouldn't have, I know. I should've stayed. But I didn't know he was…" Zayan couldn't finish the sentence. He choked on silence.
Zayan's father reached out but stopped short of touching his son. "Why didn't you tell us?"
"Because I was afraid. Because I thought maybe if I ignored it, it would hurt less. But it didn't. It's haunted me every single night."
His mother finally cried. Not the stifled kind. The kind that sounded like a truth had finally broken loose inside her.
David looked away, fists clenched. This wasn't just a confession. It was a key. One that unlocked something unbearable.
---
Later that afternoon, they went to the greenhouse.
It stood like a forgotten memory tucked between wild grass and crooked trees. The glass panes were stained with age, moss creeping along the corners. Meher stepped inside first, brushing aside a curtain of ivy. David followed, the wooden door groaning behind him.
Mavia had been here.
The air smelled of damp soil and dried jasmine. A few empty pots sat in the corners, their soil hardened. In the center, on the cracked tile floor, lay a bundle of pages wrapped in a ribbon.
Meher bent down, fingers trembling, and lifted it. A notebook. The last one.
David noticed the faint chalk marks on the wall behind her—words scrawled in Mavia's slanted handwriting:
*Some things bloom even when no one is watching.*
Meher pressed the notebook to her chest.
"He came here to say goodbye," she whispered.
David didn't respond. He knelt down, brushing dust off a broken pot. Inside was a small candle, half-melted.
"He didn't want to be saved," Meher said, barely audible. "But he wanted to be remembered."
David stood, looking around the greenhouse. "Then let's remember him the right way."
She looked at him. "How?"
"We read the notebook. We find the rest of his words. We finish what he started."
Outside, the wind stirred the trees gently—as if the world was finally willing to listen.
---
That evening, they sat on the porch of Meher's house with the notebook between them.
Zayan had gone home in silence, his parents walking a step behind, changed in a way none of them had words for. Grief rearranges people.
David opened the notebook.
The first page was blank.
The second wasn't.
*If you're reading this, it means I couldn't carry it anymore. But maybe you can.*
Meher's breath hitched.
David turned the page.
More writing. More pieces of Mavia they didn't know they'd lost.
*You always saw me, even when I tried to disappear. Thank you.*
They read in silence until the sky dimmed, and even the wind grew still.
Mavia had left behind more than sorrow. He'd left behind himself. His voice. His truth.
And maybe—just maybe—a way forward.
---
End of Chapter 12