CHAPTER 64 — HONORING THEIR LITTLE ANGEL
The morning sun spilled gently across the garden, illuminating the soft greens of the trees and the dew-kissed grass. The air smelled fresh, carrying a quiet serenity that contrasted sharply with the storm of grief that had occupied Dante and Auri for weeks. Today, however, felt different.
Auri stood by the edge of the small clearing in Dante's backyard, her hands nervously clasped together, her eyes flickering to the small, carefully chosen sapling that awaited planting. The tree had been selected for its resilience and beauty—a symbol, Dante had said, of the life they would always carry in their hearts.
She swallowed hard, her emotions a tangle of sorrow and hope. "I… I don't know if I can do this, Dante," she admitted, her voice trembling. "It still hurts so much… I still cry almost every day… I keep feeling guilty… like it was my fault…"
Dante stepped closer, wrapping his arms around her gently. "Shhh… don't say that. It wasn't your fault, Auri. None of this was your fault. You loved them, you cared for them, and you're still here. That's what matters." He brushed a strand of hair from her face. "Today isn't about blame. It's about remembering. It's about honoring the life we created together, even if it was too short."
Auri's eyes filled with tears, and she leaned into his chest, breathing in the warmth that had always made her feel safe. "I just… I don't know if I'll ever stop feeling empty," she whispered.
"You don't have to stop feeling anything," Dante said softly. "You can grieve, you can cry, you can feel everything. I'll be here through it all. And together, we'll make sure our little angel knows they are loved… always."
Auri nodded, pressing her forehead against his chest. For a long moment, neither moved, simply holding each other, letting their shared pain bond them more tightly than ever before.
Finally, Dante gently took her hands and guided her to the small hole where the sapling would be planted. "We can do this together," he said. "I'll do the digging, and you can pour the water. And while we do this, we'll speak to them… tell them how much we love them."
Auri inhaled shakily and knelt beside the small tree, her hands trembling as she held the watering can. "I… I love you," she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I love you so much… and I… I love our baby… even if they're not here with us…"
Dante placed his hand over hers. "They know, Auri. They always knew. Our love was with them every day. And it always will be."
They worked in silence for a few moments, Dante carefully positioning the sapling while Auri poured water around the roots. The soil was cool and damp under her fingers, grounding her in a way that words could not. As the water seeped into the earth, Auri felt a small sense of peace, as if a tiny piece of her baby's spirit had already begun to bloom in the roots below.
When the tree was planted and steady, Dante pulled her close again, brushing away her tears. "We'll come back every week," he said. "Water it, care for it… watch it grow, just like we would have watched them grow."
Auri sniffled and nodded, her heart aching but slowly feeling lighter. "I… I think I'd like that… I'd like that so much."
Dante leaned down and kissed her softly, lingering for a moment, letting the comfort of their connection speak louder than any words could. "You're so strong, Auri. Stronger than you even realize. And I love you more every single day. We'll survive this, together. Always together."
Auri hugged him tightly, tears mingling with the sunlight, and for the first time since the accident, she allowed herself to hope. She allowed herself to feel that love could heal, that grief could coexist with joy, and that even in the shadow of loss, life could find a way to bloom.
As they stood side by side, watching the little sapling sway gently in the breeze, Auri whispered, "We'll name them someday… our little angel. And this tree… this tree will always remind us of them."
Dante nodded, resting his forehead against hers. "Yes… and they'll always be part of us, Auri. Always."
For the first time in months, they allowed themselves to smile through the tears, their hands entwined, their hearts leaning on each other. The pain had not disappeared, but in its place was a small, glowing ember of hope—an ember that would grow with their love, and with the memory of the life they had lost but would never forget.
And in that quiet garden, under the gentle warmth of the sun, Dante and Auri began to heal, together.