Chapter 27
The clink of tools, the hum of machinery, the scent of freshly cut wood—it had become a familiar rhythm. It was your world now, the sound of creation, of building something new, something solid. Vi was right there beside you, her muscles flexing as she swung a hammer with precision, her fierce eyes focused on the work at hand. Her presence had always been larger than life, and now, as you worked side by side, it felt like nothing could touch you.
You hadn't realized how much time had passed since your grandpa's death. It felt like a lifetime ago, and yet, the pain of losing him would never truly go away. You'd gotten used to the quiet, the emptiness that lingered in the spaces where he used to be, but his absence still weighed heavily on your chest at times, especially during the nights when the world felt still and silent.
But Vi, with her unshakable determination and her protective nature, had been a constant presence. She had been a distraction when you needed it, a shoulder to lean on when you couldn't bear the weight of your grief. Together, you had taken on projects, both big and small. The latest was something that felt more personal, more meaningful: you were building a new workshop, one that was going to be as much yours as it was hers. A place where the two of you could expand your business, but more importantly, a space where you could both start fresh, building something together that was just as solid as your growing relationship.
It was a dream you had shared with Vi from the beginning. In the early days of your relationship, when everything was new and uncertain, you had talked about it late at night, both of you looking out at the world, wondering what the future would hold. Now, that future was taking shape, brick by brick, beam by beam. The walls were rising, and the foundation was solid. It was a testament to everything you had built together, both personally and professionally.
But even as the project took shape, even as you found joy in the work, there were still moments when the grief hit hard. The loss of your grandpa was something that would always be a part of you, something that shaped you in ways you weren't even aware of. And as much as you wanted to move forward, to be the person Vi saw in you, sometimes it felt impossible. The weight of the world, the memories of your childhood, would come crashing back in moments of weakness.
It was during one of those moments, late in the afternoon as you worked on securing a new piece of wood to the frame, that the grief returned. It was like a wave that crept up behind you, its presence subtle at first, but then growing stronger, pushing you deeper into the ocean of sadness. You couldn't stop it, couldn't breathe past the lump in your throat. For a moment, everything seemed dark, the walls of the workshop closing in on you.
Vi noticed it immediately. She had been working next to you, her hands covered in sawdust, when she saw the shift in your demeanor. Your posture had gone rigid, your hands faltering in their task, the light leaving your eyes. She put down her tools without hesitation, stepping closer to you, her strong hands gently but firmly resting on your shoulders.
"Hey," she said softly, her voice thick with concern. "What's going on?"
You tried to shake it off, the wave of emotion crashing over you as you turned your face away, unwilling to show her the weakness that you felt consuming you. You were fine. You had to be fine. You couldn't let this break you, not again.
"Nothing," you lied, your voice tight. "Just a little tired."
But Vi wasn't buying it. She had seen you go through this before. She knew the signs, the way your whole body would tense when the sadness hit. She also knew that this wasn't something she could fix with a simple word or a gesture. This was something deeper, something that you had to work through in your own time.
She wasn't about to let you push her away, though. Slowly, she knelt down in front of you, bringing her face closer to yours, her piercing eyes searching yours for any sign of what was really going on. Her fingers reached up to gently lift your chin, forcing you to meet her gaze. There was no anger in her eyes, no impatience—just concern, love, and a quiet determination.
"You don't have to pretend with me," she said softly. "I know you're hurting. I can see it in your eyes. But you don't have to carry this alone."
You tried to fight the tears, to swallow the pain, but it was too much. You felt the dam inside you break, the grief pouring out in a rush. It was everything: the loss of your grandpa, the loneliness you sometimes felt, the feeling that you weren't enough, that you could never truly move forward. You buried your face in your hands, unable to hold it in any longer.
Vi's arms were around you in an instant, her strong body pulling you close as she held you, her voice a steady, calming force against the storm inside you.
"I'm here," she whispered, her lips brushing against your hair. "I'm right here. And I'm not going anywhere."
It wasn't the first time you had cried in her arms. But each time, it felt a little different. Each time, it felt like a weight was being lifted, a little bit more of the sadness letting go. She didn't try to fix you. She didn't try to tell you that everything would be okay. She just held you, and that was enough. She had learned, over time, that love wasn't about fixing everything—it was about being there when it counted.
You didn't know how long you sat there, wrapped in Vi's embrace, your body trembling with the intensity of your emotions. But eventually, the tears stopped, the weight of your grief lessened. The tightness in your chest slowly began to loosen, and for the first time in what felt like a long while, you could breathe again.
"I'm sorry," you murmured, your voice hoarse. "I don't know why this is still so hard."
Vi pulled back just enough to look at you, her hands gently cupping your face. "You don't have to apologize. Grieving takes time. And sometimes it's messy. But that's okay. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."
You nodded, the ache in your heart not completely gone, but the reassurance in Vi's words a balm to your soul. You didn't have to be perfect. You didn't have to have everything figured out. With Vi by your side, you could take things one step at a time, one day at a time.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the workshop, you stood together, side by side. The work wasn't finished yet, but you knew it would get done. Together, you would build something that was strong, something that would last. And maybe, just maybe, that's what life was about—building something meaningful, something real, out of the mess and the pain.
The workshop was more than just a place of work—it was a symbol of everything you had built together, everything you had overcome. It was a reflection of your love, your strength, and your ability to weather the storms. And though the grief would always be a part of you, it didn't have to define you.
With Vi by your side, you could face anything. And that was enough.
The next day, you both returned to the project, each moment shared between you an opportunity to grow. Even as you worked, there was a sense of peace in the air, a calm that hadn't been there before. The future didn't feel so daunting anymore. With Vi, you knew that whatever came next, you would face it together. And for the first time in a long time, you felt hope stirring in your chest, gently pushing back the shadows that had once consumed you.