THE LAST HOUR OF SEVEN BELLS
The Anniversary
The anniversary came on a Sunday.
Fifteen years since Lena died. Fifteen years since Nora’s world had cracked open and swallowed everything she loved. Fifteen years of guilt, of grief, of running.
Nora had dreaded this day for months.
She had planned to ignore it, to treat it like any other Sunday, to bury herself in work and errands and distractions.
But she could not.
The day demanded to be felt.
The day demanded to be remembered.
The day demanded to be survived.
She woke early.
The sun was not yet up. The sky was gray, the clouds low, the air cold. She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the silence.
The photograph of Lena was on her nightstand, propped against the lamp, her sister’s face smiling at her in the dim light.
“Good morning,” Nora whispered.
The silence answered.
She got up.
She dressed.
She drove to the cemetery.
The gates were open.
The grass was wet with dew.
The stones were dark.
Nora walked to Lena’s grave.
She knelt.
The ground was cold.
She placed a handful of wildflowers on the headstone — not the expensive arrangements she had bought in the past, not the elaborate displays she had used to mask her grief, but simple flowers, picked from the edge of the road, their stems still damp with rain.
“I miss you,” she said.
The wind carried her words away.
“I miss you every day. Every hour. Every minute.”
She paused.
The silence stretched.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry I didn’t answer. I’m sorry I didn’t save you.”
She closed her eyes.
“But I’m not sorry I loved you. I’m not sorry I knew you. I’m not sorry you were my sister.”
She stood.
She walked back to her car.
She drove to the prison.
Miles was already in the visitation room.
His face was pale. His eyes were red. He had been crying.
“You came,” he said.
“I said I would.”
“I didn’t think you would.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s the anniversary. Because it’s hard. Because I thought you’d want to be alone.”
“I’ve been alone for fifteen years. I’m tired of it.”
She sat down.
She picked up the phone.
He picked up his.
“I visited her grave,” she said.
“How was it?”
“Hard. But necessary.”
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t looking for anything. I was just… being there.”
“That’s enough.”
“Is it?”
“It has to be.”
The guard announced that visiting hours were ending.
Nora stood.
She pressed her hand against the glass.
“I’ll come back,” she said.
“I know.”
“Next week.”
“I’ll be here.”
“Same time?”
“Same place.”
She turned.
She walked to the door.
She did not look back.