Scilla set a photo gently on the edge of one of the journal stacks, but her hand hovered there for a second too long. Aurelia noticed. "You okay?" she asked, not quite meeting her sister's eyes. Scilla didn't answer right away. She picked up another journal instead, flipping through its pages like she was looking for something specific. "Do you ever wonder," she said quietly, "if she left all of this because she didn't trust us to hold onto her without instructions?" Aurelia blinked. "What? No. She left it because she loved us. Because she wanted to be remembered." "Yeah, but… it's like she had to lay out a whole trail just so we wouldn't fall apart." Aurelia's shoulders tensed. "We did fall apart. After she died, you shut down. You wouldn't talk to me for weeks." Scilla looked up, eyes hard. "And you acted like everything was fine. Like grief was something to organize into color-coded bins." "That's not fair." "Neither was losing her. But we did. And now you want to play house with these boxes and pretend we're some perfect little team?" The girls began to fight and Aurelia stood up too fast, nearly knocking over one of the unopened boxes. "I'm trying, Scilla. I'm trying. You think I don't miss her every single day? That I don't lie awake wondering if we said everything we needed to say? At least I'm doing something with all this, what are you doing, besides picking fights?"
Scilla opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Just breath. Just the weight of everything that had gone unsaid. The air between them thickened no longer warm with memory, but tight with the strain of grief worn thin. Aurelia crossed her arms. "Maybe you should go cool off. Come back when you're ready to actually be here." Scilla nodded stiffly, but her eyes shimmered. She grabbed her coat from the hook by the door and left without another word. The door clicked shut behind her, soft but final. Aurelia stood there for a long time, surrounded by their mother's memories, but suddenly feeling more alone than ever. She looked at the photograph again, two sisters, side by side, and turned it face down. Then she reached for the next box. Her hands shook a little. The trail wasn't over. But maybe, for now, they'd have to walk it apart. The house felt different with silence stretched between rooms not the comforting kind Scilla remembered from childhood, but something colder. Like absence had taken up residence. Three days had passed since she walked out. The boxes still waited in the living room, untouched. Scilla hadn't gone far. She stayed in the guest room at Aunt Flora's, where everything smelled faintly of lavender and mothballs. Her aunt didn't ask questions, just left a stack of old wool blankets and a plate of lemon cookies by the door every night, as if grief could be softened with sugar.
She spent most of her time walking. Neighborhood streets blurred into each other, the same cracked sidewalks and blooming dandelions. She kept thinking of the letter. The way their mother had written, "You were never meant to go through this separately." The words echoed, guilt clinging to them like wet leaves. But she didn't go back. Not yet. Across town, Aurelia was trying to stay busy. She reorganized every drawer in the kitchen, alphabetized the spice rack, and labeled the freezer contents with a level of precision that bordered on manic. Anything to avoid looking at the photo still lying facedown on the journal pile. She had told herself she didn't care that Scilla left. That it was better this way, less tension, fewer unspoken things threatening to explode. But the silence didn't bring peace. It brought echoes. On the fourth night, unable to sleep, Aurelia wandered back to the boxes. The journal she'd left half-read lay open to a new page. Not one she remembered. It wasn't a journal entry. It was a note. Short. Scribbled on the inside cover in their mother's handwriting.
For both of you. When you're ready.
Look in the garden.
Love, M.
Aurelia sat frozen for a moment. Then she stood, grabbed her jacket, and stepped out into the dark. Aurelia's breath curled in the cold night air as she crossed the back porch. The garden was overgrown now, wild and unbothered, with stalks of last year's lavender bowing beneath the weight of dew. The moonlight spilled across the yard like silver thread, and for a moment, she just stood there, not sure what she was looking for. Then she saw it. The birdhouse. It hung from the old apple tree near the fence—the one their mother had painted when they were kids, now faded and chipped, but still hanging on. Beneath it, the soil looked freshly turned. Aurelia knelt, brushing away the soft blanket of fallen petals and dirt. Her fingers hit something solid. Wood. A small box, wrapped in oilcloth and tied with twine. Heart pounding, she lifted it carefully and brought it back inside. The box wasn't locked, but it creaked when she opened it, the way old things do. Inside, there were letters. Dozens. All sealed. All labeled in their mother's handwriting.
Some said For Scilla.
Some said For Aurelia.
And some said For both.
There was also a tiny cassette recorder tucked beside them, with a note clipped to the front: Press play when you're together. Aurelia stared at it for a long moment, the weight of the past and future cradled in her lap. She didn't cry. Not yet. She just reached for her phone and called her sister. Scilla was lying on the guest bed, half-wrapped in a scratchy quilt, slowly eating the last of the lemon cookies their Aunt Rose had left her. She'd been staring at the ceiling for the past hour, counting cracks in the plaster and thinking about the sound her mother used to make when she hummed in the kitchen. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She almost didn't answer. But then she saw the name. Aurelia. She swiped the screen and pressed it to her ear. "Hey." There was a pause. Then her sister's voice came, soft and careful. "I found something." Scilla sat up a little. "What kind of something?" "In the garden. There's a box. Letters. For both of us." A breath. "And a tape." Silence stretched for a beat. Then another. Scilla wiped her fingers on the blanket. "Do you want me to come home?" "Yeah," Aurelia said. "I do." Scilla stood. The cookie crumbs scattered across the bedspread. "Be there soon." Scilla arrived just after midnight. The porch light was on, casting a soft halo across the steps.
Aurelia opened the door before she got up the last step, like she'd been waiting just on the other side. Neither of them said much at first. Just a quick, quiet hug brief, but real. The living room looked almost exactly as Scilla had left it. Boxes still in a loose circle, the photo still facedown. But something felt different. The air wasn't heavy anymore. It felt… paused. Like the house itself was holding its breath. Aurelia led her to the couch and handed her the small wooden box. Scilla ran her fingers over the edge, then looked up. "You really found this in the garden?" Aurelia nodded. "Under the birdhouse." Scilla smiled faintly. "She always said that tree kept secrets." They didn't open the letters. Not yet. The tape recorder sat on the coffee table between them, and for a long second, neither of them reached for it. "You ready?" Aurelia asked. "No," Scilla said. "But do it anyway." Aurelia pressed play. There was a soft click. A bit of static. Then the unmistakable sound of their mother's voice warm, low, threaded with a quiet strength that made both sisters inhale sharply.
"Hi, my loves," she said. "If you're hearing this, then somehow, you're together. That alone makes me happy." A pause. They could almost hear her smile. "I wanted to leave you something that wasn't a recipe, or a journal, or a memory pressed into a box. I wanted to leave you my voice. Because I know how grief works. It tries to erase things how people sounded, how they moved, the little things that made them feel real." Scilla closed her eyes. "I don't have anything profound to say. Not really. I just want to remind you of what you already know. You are each other's home. You always have been." Aurelia reached over, her fingers gently curling around her sister's. "There will be days when the missing feels unbearable," their mother continued. "When the weight of it sinks into your bones. But even then even then you have each other." The tape crackled. Her voice softened. "Take care of one another. Be patient with the parts that still hurt. Don't let silence grow between you. You're both stubborn, and that's fine. But don't mistake distance for strength. Love is the braver thing." Another pause. "I love you more than the moon loves the tide. More than words will ever be able to hold. And I'm proud of you. Every day." Click. The tape ended. Neither sister moved.
The house was silent again, Scilla was the first to speak. "She always did know how to shut us up." Aurelia laughed, wiping her cheeks. "She really did." They sat there, hand in hand, surrounded by boxes of memories and now, this one new sound. This living proof that she had been real, and loved them, and somehow knew exactly what they'd need. Eventually, Scilla reached for the first letter labeled For both. Aurelia didn't stop her. This time, they would open it together. Scilla unfolded the letter slowly, careful not to tear the delicate paper. The handwriting was unmistakable, round, rushed, lovingly familiar. Aurelia leaned in as Scilla read aloud: My dears,
You found the tape. And if you're reading this, then you're already doing the thing I hoped you would. You're listening. Not just to me, but to each other. That's what matters. I know there are things that will be hard to talk about. Things that will make you want to retreat, or blame, or pretend you're not hurting. Don't. Grief has a way of twisting silence into something it was never meant to be. But you are not your silence. You are the noise of your laughter, the clash of your arguments, the quiet of forgiveness. There are more letters in this box some just for Scilla, some just for Aurelia, some for both of you. You don't have to read them all at once. You don't even have to read them today. But when you do, read them like you're remembering me messy, honest, a little too sentimental. With snacks. Always with snacks. And remember, the real inheritance isn't in these boxes. It's in what you do with them.
Love you like fire. Like sky. Like forever.
—Mom
By the time Scilla finished, her voice was soft and steady, but her eyes shimmered. Aurelia didn't speak. She just reached into the box and pulled out another letter, this one labeled Scilla – for the day you feel like you've lost your voice. She handed it to her sister. Scilla smiled faintly. "Later," she said. Aurelia nodded. "Yeah. Later." And for the first time in a long time, later didn't feel like something to be afraid of.