CHAPTER 65 — LEARNING TO BREATHE AGAIN
The days after planting their little angel's tree felt different—softer somehow. The grief was still there, still sharp on some mornings, still heavy on most nights. But there was also something else now… something warm. Something like the slow return of air after holding their breath for far too long.
Auri sat on the back porch wrapped in a blanket, her knees tucked to her chest as she watched the small sapling swaying in the breeze. It had only been a few days, but she found herself drawn to it every morning, like the tree whispered a quiet invitation for her to sit, to breathe, to feel.
Dante stepped outside with two mugs of warm cocoa, his hair still damp from the shower. He looked at her with that soft expression he had been wearing more often lately—the one filled with tenderness, worry, and love all tangled together.
"You're up early," he said, handing her a mug.
Auri cupped it between her palms, letting the warmth seep into her fingertips. "I couldn't sleep. Kept waking up." She hesitated, glancing at him. "Do you… still wake up at night?"
Dante sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched. "Every night," he admitted quietly. "I still check your breathing sometimes. I still think about… everything." His voice cracked just a little. "But I'm healing. We're healing."
Auri leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. "Thank you for not giving up on me."
Dante wrapped his arm around her. "Never. You're my heart, Auri. I'm not going anywhere."
They sat like that for a long while, watching the sapling shift gently with the wind, its young leaves glistening under the soft morning sun. Auri breathed deeply, feeling for the first time that maybe—just maybe—she was finding her way back to herself.
After a moment, Dante nudged her lightly. "Want to go on a walk later? Not far. Just around the neighborhood. Fresh air. No pressure."
Auri smiled faintly. "I think I'd like that."
He grinned. "Good. And afterward… maybe we can start clearing the guest room?"
Auri blinked, surprised. "For what?"
Dante rubbed the back of his neck. "I thought maybe we could… redecorate. Make it into something you'd like. A painting room, or a reading nook. Something peaceful. Something just for you."
Her heart squeezed. "Dante… that's really sweet."
He shrugged, suddenly shy. "I just want you to have a space that feels like hope again."
Auri reached out, taking his hand. "Then let's do it together."
Later that afternoon, they stood in front of the guest room—boxes stacked, old furniture pushed aside, dust floating in sunbeams. Auri looked around, memories of what the room was supposed to be threatening to wash over her.
Dante noticed the stiffness in her posture and gently touched her back.
"We're not erasing anything," he said softly. "We're making room for healing."
Auri nodded slowly, taking a deep breath. "Okay… I'm ready."
They opened boxes, sorted old items, laughed when Dante found his old college sweater, rolled their eyes together when she uncovered his ancient CD collection. Auri even teased him when he tried to pretend he didn't still know every lyric.
There were moments when she paused, when silence fell too heavy. But Dante didn't push. He didn't rush her. He simply stood beside her, grounding her with his presence.
By evening, the room was empty enough to echo.
Auri stood in the middle of it, imagining what it could become.
"I want light colors," she said finally. "Soft ones. And maybe shelves for books. And a corner for painting."
Dante's smile was warm. "Whatever you want, we'll make it happen."
Auri turned to him then—really looked at him. At the man who had held her through her darkest nights, who had cried with her, who had never once let her feel alone.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For everything. For staying. For being patient. For loving me even when I felt… shattered."
Dante cupped her face gently. "Auri… loving you isn't something I have to try for. It's just something I do. Something I always will."
Her eyes glistened, but this time the tears didn't feel like breaking.
They felt like release.
She leaned into his chest, letting him hold her as the sun slowly dipped beyond the window, casting gold across the room that would soon become a space of healing, of peace, of new beginnings that didn't erase the past—but honored it.
In that quiet, tender moment, they weren't rushing into the future nor drowning in the past.
They were simply learning to breathe again.
Together.