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Prologue
Gabriel
In the silent hours of the night, under the gentle glow of the moon, I lie awake, my heart filled with a deep sense of longing and loss. My dreams weave together the words of a prayer, a melody that blurs the lines between being awake and asleep.
Each night, as I close my eyes, I enter a realm painted with the colors of memories and desires. “I pray that my eyes awaken with the light of your gaze,” I whisper softly.
In this world, my wife’s eyes shine like stars, guiding me through the darkness of my grief.
I dream of days filled with laughter and nights enveloped in the warmth of shared dreams. In these dreams, I pray that you stay by my side and never leave me, my love.
I plead into the night.
In these dreams, she is there, as real as the ache in my heart.
Yet, each dream reminds me of the moment that broke my world. The dreams are a harsh contradiction, offering glimpses of a love that remains just out of reach.
As dawn nears, my dreams shift, creating visions of a future that might have been. I see children playing in the sunlight, their laughter filling a home brimming with love—a love I had hoped to share with her.
I pray for our children.
I pray for her heart.
I pray for us.
But as the first light of morning filters through the curtains, reality gradually returns. I wake up to a world that seems murkier, a life that feels incomplete. Yet, in the quiet moments of awakening, I cling to the dreams, the prayers, and the love that keeps her memory alive in my heart.
I pray for one more second of life to give to her and my whole heart to surrender. I promise as I rise to face the day. In my heart, I know that every heartbeat, every breath, is a tribute to the love we shared—a love that, even when I pretend it never existed, remains strong.
And so, I navigate the delicate balance between reality and dreams, carrying within me a prayer that transcends time and space.
And if I die, let it be of love, knowing that in the end, it is love that infuses everything with meaning—love that will guide me through the darkest nights and into the light of a new day.
Chapter One
Gabriel
Ten Years Later . . .
I hate three things: traffic, small talk, and surprises.
The last two are easy to avoid, but not my daily commute on the always congested streets of Seattle. Each morning seems like new havoc, but it’s not. It’s always the same. Careless lane changes without signaling, passive-aggressive brake-checks when I try passing, and, the worst, breakfast-eating drivers treating their cars like dining rooms despite doing more than fifty miles per hour.
As usual, I white-knuckle the steering wheel, drifting between lanes in search of any gaps to avoid an accident and get the fuck out of here a lot faster. It’s like a video game, dodging sudden obstacles while trying not to ram the oblivious obstacle ahead absorbed in their egg sandwich rather than the road. I resist laying on my car horn, knowing it won’t get their attention or hurry them along.
The sudden ringing phone breaks my concentration. I glance at the dashboard where the word ‘Mom’ with her picture flashes on the screen as if alerting me of some impending lecture.
“It’s too fucking early,” I groan.
I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I should send her to voicemail. I’m not ready to deal with another human being. But if I do, she might just hop in her car and pay me a visit because I’ve been avoiding her for the past few weeks. And so, I take a breath before plastering a smile across my face and tapping the green button on the wheel.
“Morning, Mom,” I say, injecting a casual tone.
“Good morning, sweetie. I hope you’re having a good Tuesday so far,” she chirps like a bird at sunrise, her cheerfulness grating on my mood.
Mom is relentlessly upbeat. Her glass is permanently half full no matter the circumstances. She’s an incurable optimist who sees rainbows where others see only storm clouds.Pria Decker will always find a reason to smile even when it’s pouring rain—always.
“How’s my favorite lady this morning?” I ask, hoping she’ll make this short. I’m not in a good state of mind.
