Chapter 13 - THE BURIAL OF THE PAST
Spring finally melted the Canadian snow, turning the streets of Toronto into a sea of green and blooming tulips.
Alexander had not returned to Chicago.
He had purchased a modest, quiet house overlooking Lake Ontario, far away from the casinos, the mob enforcers, and the gleaming towers of the Hayes empire.
He had stepped down as active head of the syndicate, handing the reigns permanently to Marcus.
We lived under the same roof, but we slept in separate rooms.
There was no pressure.
No schedules.
Just two broken people slowly learning how to breathe together again.
On a warm Saturday morning, we drove out to a serene, wooded cemetery overlooking the lake.
We carried the mahogany box between us.
We walked down a quiet grassy hill until we reached a secluded spot beneath a blossoming cherry tree.
Together, we dug a small plot in the rich earth.
We placed the white urn gently into the ground, covering it with fresh soil and surrounding it with a circle of white lilies.
I knelt in the grass, tracing the polished wood with my fingertips one last time.
“Goodbye, my sweet girl,” I whispered, tears falling freely into the dirt.
Alexander knelt beside me, wrapping his arm securely around my shoulders, pulling me against his chest.
He didn't try to be strong.
He let the tears fall, too.
We stayed there until the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in brilliant shades of gold and amethyst.
For the first time since the accident, the suffocating weight in my chest finally lifted.
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We had buried our child.
And in doing so, we had finally buried the ghosts of our past.
