𝑫𝒐𝒔 𝑶𝒓𝒖𝒈𝒖𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒔

Sebastían Yatra

0:41─♡────── 3:35

"𝚂𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚘, 𝚗𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚞á𝚗𝚍𝚘. 𝙱𝚞𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚐ú𝚗 𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌ó𝚗"

The night was colder than usual for July, the chill seeping through the thin walls of the Harding house. Maeve stood in the kitchen, staring blankly at the kettle on the stove as it hissed softly. The letter lay folded in her apron pocket, its edges pressing into her side like a constant reminder of what she had to do. Her hands were steady, but the weight in her chest threatened to pull her to the ground.

Rosie, now fourteen but with eyes that seemed older now, sat at the table with her homework spread in front of her. She was struggling through a set of arithmetic problems, her pencil tapping rhythmically against the wood. Maeve watched her for a moment, her heart aching. Rosie still carried a lightness that Maeve envied, though it had dimmed over the years. Maeve didn't want to extinguish it completely, but the truth was a storm she couldn't hold back.

"Rosie," Maeve said gently, walking over and sitting beside her. "How's it going?"

Rosie glanced up, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "I hate school," she said simply, pushing the notebook toward Maeve. "None of this makes sense."

Maeve took the pencil, her fingers brushing against Rosie's smaller ones. "Let me see." She scanned the numbers, her brow furrowing slightly. "Look here—see? Multiply this first."

Rosie leaned closer, her hair brushing Maeve's shoulder as she followed the correction. "Oh," she said, her voice tinged with surprise. "I get it now."

Maeve smiled faintly, handing the pencil back. "You're smarter than you think. Just need to slow down a bit."

Rosie grinned, the small victory brightening her face. For a moment, Maeve let herself believe this could be enough—a quiet night, a small triumph. But the weight of the letter in her pocket pulled her back to reality.

Maeve said softly, her voice losing its lightness. "There's something I need to tell you."

Rosie's smile faded, her expression shifting to one of cautious concern. "What is it?"

Maeve hesitated, her hands folding tightly in her lap. "It's about Jamie."

Rosie sat up straighter, her pencil still in her hand. "Is he alright? Did he write?"

Maeve's breath hitched, and she looked away for a moment, her fingers curling into her apron. "No, love," she said quietly. "He's... he's not coming home."

Rosie's brow furrowed, her voice trembling. "What do you mean? Why isn't he coming home?"

Maeve met her eyes, her own gaze steady but filled with pain. "He's sleeping, Rosie. He's gone to sleep, and he's not going to wake up."

Rosie's pencil slipped from her fingers, clattering to the floor. Her face crumpled, her eyes filling with tears as the meaning of Maeve's words sank in. "No," she whispered, shaking her head. "No, that's not true. He promised he'd come back."

Maeve reached for her, pulling her into a tight embrace. Rosie sobbed against her chest, her small hands clutching Maeve's arms. Maeve stroked her hair, her own tears slipping silently down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Baby," Maeve whispered, her voice cracking. "I'm so sorry."

That night, Maeve sat beside Rosie's bed, her hand resting lightly on her sister's back as she lay curled under the blankets. Rosie's sobs had quieted, replaced by the occasional hiccup as she buried her face in the pillow.

"Do you want me to sing to you?" Maeve asked softly.

Rosie nodded without looking up, her voice muffled. "The one Mum used to sing."

Maeve swallowed hard, the memory of their mother's voice like a distant echo in her mind. She began to hum the familiar tune, her voice low and wavering at first but growing steadier as she sang the lullaby their mother had once used to calm them both. The words were simple, a melody about stars and peaceful dreams, but it carried a weight that neither of them could ignore.

As the song faded, Rosie's breathing evened out, her small body finally succumbing to sleep. Maeve brushed a strand of hair from her sister's face, her own heart heavy with the grief she couldn't let Rosie see.

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The kitchen was dark when Maeve found her father sitting at the table, a cigarette dangling from his lips and a half-empty bottle of whiskey in front of him. The air was thick with smoke, the faint glow of his cigarette the only light in the room. He didn't look up when Maeve walked in, his shoulders hunched and his face drawn.

"Dad," Maeve said, her voice sharp enough to cut through the silence.

Ewan glanced at her, his eyes bloodshot and heavy-lidded. "What do you want, Maeve?"

Maeve pulled the letter from her pocket and set it on the table in front of him. "It's about Jamie," she said bluntly.

Ewan stared at the letter, his hand hovering over it before pulling back as if it burned. "What does it say?"

Maeve crossed her arms over her chest, her tone clipped. "It says he's dead. Killed in France on the Fourth of July."

Ewan flinched, his hand trembling as he reached for his glass. He downed the whiskey in one gulp, his jaw clenching tightly. "I see."

"That's all you've got to say?" Maeve snapped, her voice rising. "You see? Your son is dead."

Ewan slammed the glass onto the table, the sound echoing in the small room. "What do you want me to do?" he shouted, his voice raw. "Bring him back? I can't—I can't fix this!"

"No, you can't," Maeve shot back, her green eyes blazing. "But you can be here for Rosie. So stop hiding behind that bottle and do something for once."

Ewan's shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him as he sank back into the chair. He buried his face in his hands, his body trembling. Maeve stood there for a moment, her chest heaving with anger and grief.

Finally, she stepped forward, her voice softer but no less firm. " She needs you. You might not think you're enough, but you're all we've got left."

Ewan looked up at her. For a moment, he looked like the man he used to be, before the grief and the whiskey took him. "I'll try," he said quietly, his voice hoarse.

Maeve nodded, her throat tight. "That's all I'm asking."

She turned and left the kitchen, leaving Ewan alone with the letter and the silence.

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Now months later Maeve stood in her boss's office at the bar, her arms crossed as she waited for him to finish scribbling in his ledger. The office smelled faintly of tobacco and ink, the cluttered desk a testament to his lack of organization.

"Here you go," he said finally, handing Maeve a folded envelope. "Pay's all there. Good work this week."

"Thanks," Maeve said simply, taking the envelope and slipping it into her pocket. She left the bar without lingering, her steps brisk as she headed toward the small shop on the corner of the main street.

Inside, the smell of leather and polish filled the air. Maeve's eyes scanned the shelves until she found what she was looking for—sturdy black shoes, the kind that would pair perfectly with a school uniform. She picked them up, running her fingers over the smooth leather. They were simple, elegant, and practical. Perfect for Rosie.

After paying, Maeve tucked the shoes into her bag and made her way home, her heart pounding with nervous anticipation. This plan had been months in the making—long nights saving every penny she could spare, countless hours drafting letters and submitting applications. It was all for Rosie.

The small house felt warm and inviting when Maeve stepped through the door. Their dog, a scruffy terrier named Jack, greeted her immediately, his tail wagging furiously as he barked in excitement. Maeve crouched down, scratching behind his ears. "Hello, Jack. Miss me?"

Jack responded by licking her hand, and Maeve smiled despite herself. The dog had been a recent addition to their home, a suggestion from Polly to help Rosie cope after Jamie's death. It had worked—he brought a small but vital spark of joy back into their lives.

Maeve stood and hung up her coat, moving into the kitchen. The room smelled of roasted chicken and herbs, the warmth from the stove filling the air. She had spent the afternoon preparing Rosie's favorite dishes—creamy mashed potatoes, roasted carrots glazed with honey, and a rich gravy to pour over everything. The chicken sat golden and crisp on the table, its aroma mouthwatering. A soft melody played from the small gramophone in the corner, filling the space with a gentle rhythm.

She placed the shoes and the letter of admission inside a beautifully wrapped box, tying it with a satin ribbon. Her hands lingered on the bow for a moment, her thoughts racing. Would Rosie understand what this meant? Would she want it? Maeve shook off the doubt and placed the box on the table.

When Rosie walked through the door, the scent of dinner hit her immediately. She paused, her school satchel slipping from her shoulder as her nose wrinkled in curiosity. The soft music reached her ears, and a faint smile spread across her face. She hadn't seen Maeve this... happy in years. It was like a part of her sister that had been buried beneath grief and exhaustion was finally breaking through.

"Maeve?" Rosie called, shrugging off her jacket and hanging it by the door. Jack scampered to greet her, and she laughed as she crouched down to pet him. "What's going on? Did something happen?"

Maeve appeared from the kitchen, a smile lighting her face. "You're home! Come on, dinner's ready."

Rosie stood, eyeing her sister suspiciously as she stepped closer. "What's gotten into you?" she asked, her voice teasing. "You're acting strange."

Maeve hugged her, wrapping her arms around Rosie tightly. The younger girl stiffened for a moment, then relaxed, hugging her sister back. "Can't I just be happy to see you?" Maeve said, her voice light but with an undercurrent of emotion that Rosie didn't miss.

"You can," Rosie replied, pulling back slightly. She squinted at Maeve. "But you're up to something. What is it?"

Maeve laughed, the sound soft and melodic. "We'll get to that. First, dinner—before it gets cold."

Rosie looked toward the table, her eyes widening at the sight of the feast. "Maeve... you made all of this?"

Maeve nodded, pulling out a chair for her. "Of course. Sit. Eat."

As they sat down, Rosie glanced around the room. "Where's Dad?"

Maeve's smile faltered for a split second, but she quickly recovered. Rosie bit her lip, her eyes dropping to her plate. "Sorry."

"It's fine, don't worry about him." Maeve said softly." He's probably at the bar. Let's just enjoy dinner, yeah?"

They ate in relative silence, Rosie savoring every bite while Maeve watched her with a mixture of affection and anticipation. After the plates were cleared, Maeve brought the wrapped box from the counter and placed it in front of Rosie.

"What's this?" Rosie asked, her brow furrowing.

Maeve smiled, her hands clasped tightly together. "Open it."

Rosie untied the ribbon, her fingers fumbling slightly with excitement. When she lifted the lid, her eyes landed on the shoes. She pulled them out, her expression puzzled. "They're beautiful," she said, looking up at Maeve. "But... why?"

"There's more," Maeve said, gesturing to the letter inside.

Rosie set the shoes down carefully and picked up the letter. She unfolded it, her lips moving as she read the words aloud. "Dear Miss Harding, we are pleased to inform you of your acceptance to St. Paul's School for Girls in London..." Her voice trailed off, her eyes widening. She looked up at Maeve, her hands shaking slightly. "This... this is for me?"

Maeve nodded, tears brimming in her eyes. "It's for you. I applied months ago. The first year's covered—I saved enough. And the next three years are on a scholarship."

Rosie let out a small, disbelieving laugh, her face breaking into a grin. "Maeve, this is... this is amazing! I can't believe this! How did you...?"

"I have a friend on the admissions committee," Maeve said, her smile soft. "They helped make it happen. But this is all you, Rosie. You deserve this."

Rosie stood suddenly, throwing her arms around Maeve. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Thank you so much."

Maeve held her tightly, as she buried her face in Rosie's hair. "You're going to do great things" she said, her voice trembling. "I know you are."

For the first time in what felt like forever, the house was filled with hope, and Maeve allowed herself to believe, just for one moment, that things might get better.