Page 7 of What Remains of Grace

For a few seconds, Jenna didn’t know where she was. The hum of the refrigerator and the low drip of the faucet were the only sounds. Then she looked around to the counters she’d wiped down and the trays she’d stacked to dry, and it all came rushing back.

Grace.

She knew this part. The morning after. The way it would stretch on for months. The first thought she’d have every day from now on would be this one: Grace is gone. It would hit before coffee, before consciousness fully caught up.

It had been the same after Brooks. Every morning for months, she’d wake, blink at the ceiling, and remember what day it was. Then the realization would land, heavy and exact: her brother was dead. It became her morning ritual, as predictable as sunrise.

She wondered how long it would be this time, how many mornings before her first breath wasn’t shaped by loss.

Some mornings she’d cry in the shower until there was nothing left to give, then dry her face and keep going, pretending she hadn’t just been broken open again.

At first, it came before her feet hit the floor. Later, after she’d showered, after she’d dressed, when she thought she’d made it through the hardest part, it would find her again. Standing in the kitchen, pouring coffee, that awful truth would slide in: her siblings were dead.

Eventually, she knew, the realization would come later and later, maybe while driving, when the road stretched out, and there was no one to fill the silence but memory.

People said it got easier. It didn’t. It just got different.

Outside, the sky had already turned that blinding Florida blue, dotted with the thick white clouds that only seemed to exist here: cottony, enormous, and almost too bright to look at. Light spilled through the windows, catching the edges of flour dust still hanging in the air.

Jenna sat up slowly. Her body protested, stiff shoulders and heavy limbs, but her mind had already started to move through the list of what today would demand.

Today wasn’t for cleaning or fixing. Today was for caskets. For flower arrangements. For finding a dress that her sister would wear for the last time. For seeing Emmie for the first time since the girl was six.

Today was for facing cousins, aunts, and uncles she loved, but none she had ever loved as much as she had loved Grace.

She needed her sister for this.

This was the sort of thing Grace handled while Jenna faded quietly into the background. Grace made decisions, soothed tempers, and carried everyone through. Jenna just filled in the gaps.

But there were no gaps left to fill. There was only her.

Her eyes lifted to the chalkboard menu behind the counter. The specials written there in Grace’s looping hand:

Blueberry Scones—$3.25

Key Lime Loaf—$4 a slice

Café Con Leche—$2.75

Yesterday’s specials. Forever’s specials now. How could Jenna ever bear to erase them?

She stood, brushed her palms over her jeans, and looked around the quiet bakery, Grace’s bakery, their grandmother’s legacy, the heart of everything she’d run from.

In a few hours, she’d have to step into a world that expected her to lead it through the unthinkable. Smile. Choose flowers. Sign papers. Be strong.

She wasn’t ready.

The dread sat heavy in her throat, thick as the summer air.

Jenna whispered into the stillness, “Grace, I don’t know how to do this without you.”

The bakery didn’t answer, but light pooled across the counter, warm and golden, settling over Grace’s handwriting like a blessing.

She stood there, stretching stiff limbs, and began to move through the bakery again in daylight. The same space, but changed, like grief had rearranged the air.

By the register, a corkboard still hung with snapshots and notes: customers’ thank-you’s, and a child’s crayon drawing of cupcakes signed Emmie. Grace’s handwriting was everywhere. A grocery list. A sticky note that said, “Don’t forget the key lime zest!” was taped to the espresso machine. Her looping script was still there, bright and alive, like she’d only just stepped away.

Jenna’s gaze fell on the worn floral notebook beside the counter, the one Grandma Hart had kept, and Grace had carried forward. Its spine was cracked, pages were dog-eared, and it had smudges of butter and coffee rings. She opened it gently, fingers trembling, and saw Grace’s handwriting again, cleaner than their grandmother’s but just as sure.