Chapter 52

Monica stood in the kitchen, a bastion of warmth and savory aromas. The pot of soup before her, a cauldron of comfort, bubbled gently as she stirred. Her hand was steady, the ladle an extension of her will, swirling through the thickening broth. A contented smile played upon her lips, one that reached the crinkles at the corners of her eyes.

The spoon clinked softly against the sides of the pot, a rhythmic sound that grounded Monica in the moment. Every motion was deliberate, each stir a careful choreography of love translated into culinary form. She assessed the soup"s readiness by sight and scent, the rich melding of herbs and vegetables telling her all she needed to know.

With a final swirl that gathered every flavor, Monica placed the ladle on the ceramic rest beside the stove, the delicate chime of wood meeting stone punctuating the end of its journey. Then, with hands that had known both the tenderness of cradling a child and the resolve of weathering life"s storms, she grasped the pot"s handles, her grip secure yet gentle.

She shifted the weight of the pot from the stove, the liquid inside offering a silent, rolling protest, and turned the knob with a decisive click. The flame tucked itself away, retreating beneath the iron grate, obedient to her command. Satisfied, she saw the surface of the soup settle, a mirror now calm, reflecting back at her the years of care woven into every meal, every bowl filled, every promise kept.

Monica"s gaze wandered from the soup's quiet stillness, drifting across the gleaming countertop. There, amid the daily clutter, a tray caught her eye, its contents meticulously organized. Medication bottles, their labels facing outward, stood like sentinels beside a kaleidoscope of pills.

Her fingers, still warm from the kitchen"s heat, reached out. They danced over the plastic caps with practiced ease, pausing at the first vial. With a gentle squeeze and twist, the childproof seal gave way under her insistence. One by one, the capsules and tablets found their way into her palm—oval, round, some oblong—each shape a testament to the care prescribed by doctors.

She lined them up, a tiny regiment awaiting their call to duty. Each pill was a promise, a vow to maintain the strength needed for the days ahead, for the love yet to be given.

"Can"t forget you," she said, a hint of affection in her voice as she plucked the last tablet, white and innocuous yet vital as a heartbeat. It joined its companions, completing the array, a colorful mosaic of survival and determination.

The kitchen lights cast a soft glow on Monica"s face as her eyes glazed over, not seeing the tray of pills but instead a sunlit past. A young boy with hair the color of autumn leaves laughed as he chased bubbles across the lawn, his small hands reaching up to the sky.

"Look, Mommy! I"m gonna catch the rainbow!"

"Be careful, Stevie!" Her voice was light, threaded with laughter as her heart swelled like the summer clouds above.

"Got one!" he squealed, triumphantly holding up a glistening sphere, his reflection mirrored in the iridescent surface.

"Always my brave boy," she murmured, the memory as vivid as if it were unfolding before her now.

The clack of the pill bottle closing snapped Monica back to the present. The kitchen was silent, save for the tick of the clock, marking both the passage of time and the weight of her promise. Steven, her brave boy, had left more than memories; he"d entrusted her with his most precious treasure.

"Victoria needs me," she said to no one, her resolve hardening like the set of her jaw. She would be the fortress against the world"s chaos, just as she had been for him. For her granddaughter, she would be a sanctuary, a place of love and safety, where no harm could breach the walls she built with care.

Monica"s lips parted gently, a soft melody weaving through the silence of the kitchen. The tune was familiar and warm, a lullaby once sung under starry skies to a wide-eyed child who clung to her every note. Now, the hum flowed from her with the same tenderness, a musical thread binding the past to the present.

"Everything"s going to be just right," she whispered into the steam rising from the soup, her voice mixing with the tune. The melody curled around her, infusing the room with the echo of her joy, the contentment that came with the sacred duty of care.

With each hum, the weight of the tray in her hands felt lighter. Her fingers wrapped around the edges, securing the ceramic plate beside a steaming bowl, its contents promising warmth and comfort. She navigated the path toward Victoria"s bedroom, each footstep measured and deliberate, a dance of precision born from years of practice.

"Steady now," she murmured to herself, eyes fixed on the hallway ahead, the humming a constant companion. The rhythm in her chest matched the cadence of her feet as Monica crossed the threshold. The promise she carried was reflected in the careful balance of nourishment and love upon the tray.

"Victoria, love, dinner"s ready," Monica"s voice caressed the air, a soft call weaving through the hall's stillness. The warmth in her words was a gentle embrace, an affectionate nudge against the silence that blanketed the house.

"Vicky?" she tried again, a note of playfulness threading into her tone as she neared the door, her heart sending out waves of care with each syllable. She pictured Victoria"s bright eyes, the way they"d light up, the shared smiles that seasoned their meals with more than just herbs and spices.

Monica"s hand, a delicate shadow against the wood, paused on the doorknob. The hum of anticipation buzzed in her ears, a silent drumroll for the moment of reveal. Her fingers tightened, feeling the cool metal beneath them, and with a breath held tight in her chest, she pushed.

The door swung open, easing into the quiet room beyond. A sliver of space widened and grew, inviting her in with the promise of what lay inside.

"Victoria?" The name floated into the room, a feather drifting on a breeze of hope and worry, painting the air with anticipation.

Monica"s breath hitched. The room—Victoria"s sanctuary—was silent. Too silent. The gentle creak of the opening door seemed to thunder in the stillness.

"Victoria?" she called again, her voice now a sharp note slicing through the quiet. No response. The warmth drained from her tone, replaced by an edge of urgency that had no place in this nightly ritual.

She stepped inside, the tray balanced with practiced poise. Something was off. Her eyes darted, catching fragments of the room.

"Victoria?" The word shattered, splintering into silence.

Monica"s fingers loosened their hold involuntarily, the tray tilting, a slow-motion dance of china and silver. It slipped from her numb grasp, the clatter of dishes exploding against the hush like a clap of thunder, soup splashing onto the carpet in a wild arc of amber.

The shock rooted her to the spot, the echo of broken porcelain filling the room, rebounding off walls that should"ve bounced back laughter, not this hollow sound of distress.

"But it's… that's impossible…."

Her granddaughter"s bed was empty, the sheets still crumpled, the pillow devoid of the little head that should"ve been denting it. Her wheelchair was by the side of the bed. The girl hadn't been able to walk for years.

A chill crept up Monica"s spine, whispering dread into her ear.

Where in the world was Victoria?