Grief
Grief didn't hit all at once. It came quietly, like a slow leak in the walls of life—seeping into everything, dampening thoughts, blurring the days. People say grief is a wave, but this felt more like dust. It settled on everything and never left.
After the civil farewell, the world didn't stop. That was the worst part. The streets still bustled. School still started at eight sharp. Neighbors still nodded politely. Nothing looked different—but everything felt wrong. Like reality had been rewritten in grayscale.
Crying didn't happen often. Not out of strength, just... emptiness. The emotions were there—buried beneath too much silence. Friends faded naturally, not from fights. Slowly. Like light slipping away at dusk. The laughter that once filled the spaces vanished. People stopped knowing what to say. Or maybe they stopped trying.
The house stayed quiet. Grandma noticed but didn't ask questions. Instead, meals began to include my favorite dishes again. Picture frames moved "accidentally," placed where they'd catch my eye. Sometimes her humming filled the silence—one of the old tunes Mom used to play. Neither of us spoke about it. But she was still there. The last warm thing left.
Prayers returned—not for miracles, just quiet wishes. For strength to hold. For time to slow. For something in life to stop slipping away. Even if no one was listening, the silence after those prayers felt softer than the silence without them.
The Slow Unraveling
It didn't happen all at once. At first, she just rested more, took shorter walks to the kitchen, leaned longer against the counter after reaching for something. Then came forgetfulness—names of ingredients she'd known for decades slipping away. Quiet winces when bending, a hand gripping the chair a little longer than before.
The changes crept in slowly—too slow to alarm, too steady to ignore. She stopped visiting the garden. The sewing kit lay untouched. Favorite shows played to an empty gaze. The sparkle she used to wear—the earrings, scarves, red lipstick—started showing up only on Fridays.
Without words, roles shifted. Grocery lists landed in my hands. I brought home the wrong bread, the wrong cheese—but she smiled anyway. The kettle whistled for me now. Chores that once filled her afternoons quietly became mine. If something needed fixing, lifting, remembering—she glanced my way. Not in demand. Never that. Subtle. Gentle. Like watching the tide pull back from the shore, inch by inch.
The days folded in on themselves. Her footsteps echoed less. Her words became fewer. But her smile stayed—deliberate, steady, like she was holding the house together with it alone.
By then, prayers had changed, too. Small things: let her wake easily tomorrow. Let the pain be less. Let this not be the end. No one answered. But even silence felt better when shared.
The Last Warm Night
That evening, she sat upright, propped by pillows, blanket tucked around her legs. The lamp cast a soft golden glow, blurring the lines age had drawn. For a moment, she didn't look sick—just tired in a familiar way.
"You're home early," she said as I peeked in. Her smile was immediate, waiting for me.
"I bribed time," I shrugged. "Offered it a stale biscuit. It gave me ten minutes."
She laughed, breathy and warm. "That old bakery again?"
"Yep. Brahim's still trying to flirt with the baker's daughter. Offered her a free ride on his busted scooter."
"She say yes?"
"She said she'd rather walk barefoot through cactus," I grinned.
"She's smart, that one."
"Unlike Brahim."
I settled at the edge of her bed, careful not to jostle her. "Oh, and Rachid yelled at the cat again."
"Still stealing bread?"
"No. This time she stole his seat at the café. Refused to move. Looked him dead in the eyes, stretched out like a queen."
She chuckled sharply. "That cat's the village mayor now."
"Would probably run this place better too."
She nodded, smirking. "Less taxes, more fish bones."
We laughed longer than we should have.
Then I leaned back, smirking. "Speaking of mayors… someone's been asking about you."
"Oh?"
"Mr. Azouzi. Said your name with so much passion I thought he'd break into song."
She groaned, waving a hand. "That fossil's still alive?"
"Alive and in love."
"Oh hush."
"Really, though." I leaned forward. "The look on his face when he says your name… reminded me of something."
She tilted her head. "What?"
"The Look on my Dad used to have when he looks at Mom."
The room slowed, gently. She looked down at her folded hands.
"I still miss them," I said.
"So do I," she whispered. "Every day."
A soft pause.
"I always loved how they looked at each other," she said quietly. "And at you. Like they saw something precious, no matter how tired or broken things got."
She met my eyes. Her voice softened. "In the end, that's what makes a life count, Ousse. The people they love. The lives they touch. The laughter they leave. And... the beliefs they carry."
I didn't speak, but my heart did.
"I hear you praying sometimes," she added quietly, as if it were a secret gift.
I stayed silent.
"It's dangerous," she said gently, "but it's your choice. I'm glad you have one. Just... be careful. We can't always count on prayers to save us."
I nodded slowly. She patted my hand.
"Now come on. It's dinner time."
"I'll cook."
"You've earned the night off."
She raised an eyebrow.
"You sure? Last time, you nearly served me raw rice."
"That was artistic experimentation," I grinned.
"Then let the artist cook," she smiled, leaning back. "Surprise me."
I left with a real smile—a warm hum inside. Her presence lit a candle in a dark room.
The kitchen was quiet. Familiar. Water boiled, bread warmed, steam curled in the cold air. My hands moved without thinking. For the first time in weeks, everything felt still... almost okay.
Ten minutes later, tray in hand, I returned to her room.
Pushed the door open slowly.
She was there—just as I'd left her. Head tilted gently to one side. Hands still folded. That faint smile still playing on her lips.
But the room felt different.
Still.
Too still.
No breath.
No warmth.
Just gone.