Lavender, Victoria finally admitted. Evelyn smelled like lavender. She hummed constantly. Off-key. Everywhere.
By day four, the headaches eased.
By day five, she slept.
By day six, she could walk the hallway without feeling like her bones were filled with lead.
Adrian called it somatic grief.
Grief carried in the body.
“You don’t outrun it,” he told her. “You learn to carry it differently.”
Three months later, Victoria stood before her board of directors and proposed something radical:
Comprehensive mental health coverage.
Expanded bereavement leave.
Company-wide support programs.
“People are humans first,” she said. “Employees second.”
The motion passed.
A year later, she hosted Adrian and his daughters for dinner. On her balcony, iris flowers bloomed—grown from bulbs the girls had once given her in Evelyn’s honor.
“They multiplied,” Harper whispered.
“So did the memories,” Victoria replied.
That night, after they left, Victoria stood alone in her kitchen.
And she hummed.
For the first time since Evelyn died, humming didn’t feel like breaking.
It felt like remembering.
