After He Was Gone

After he was gone, after the casket was buried and everyone had gone home, Lyra sat in the haunting silence of the graveyard. Everyone had moved on with their lives, but she stayed right there. Her body was too heavy to move. Once upon a time, it was Dad and Lyra, together against the world. Now it would just be Lyra.

The house still smelled of tobacco and sandalwood. His shoes were still by the door, his coffee mug by the sink. She thought that if she moved anything, he’d be gone for good.

That night, grief tore her in two. One shut out all the memories, and the other promised to never forget.

In one world, she gathered everything he had ever touched: the chipped mug, the half-burned incense stick, the books he last read, and placed them on her desk. She didn’t call it an altar; it was just the space where she could still feel him close. The candle flickered, trembling, whispering what he could no longer say.

“Are you still here, Papá?” she asked.

In the other world, she stood in the same room with the same mug, incense, books, and candle, but didn’t light it. The window was open, and the cold air wrapped around her skin. She took the bottle from the counter and drank until she disappeared. Her father’s mug sat empty, books collecting dust, all meaning gone. She told herself it was stupid to talk to the dead.

The two of them side by side - one listening, one refusing. Time moved like smoke, spiraling, hovering, fading. Neither version of her could tell how many days had passed.

In one world, Lyra woke early, candle burning on her desk. She replaced the water in the small glass, arranged her crystals under the windowlight, and whispered, “Gracias por el sol de esta mañana.”

She could feel him, even when her soul felt empty. The warmth that brushed against her shoulder made her believe maybe he was still here.

In the other world, Lyra woke with an ache behind her eyes. The bottle from the night before lay empty on the floor. She told herself, I just want not to feel today. When she opened the window, the air outside smelled faintly of sandalwood. For a second, she thought she heard him humming his favorite song - but no, it was only the wind she insisted, slamming the window shut.

Something in both worlds began to stir.

When the one who remembered lit her candle, the one who refused caught a flicker of light on her wall, even when no lamp was on.

When the one who refused cried herself to sleep, the one who remembered woke with wet cheeks, unable to remember her dreams.

Sometimes they both reached for the same object - the mug or the book - and paused, heart pounding, feeling how someone had just been there. It was the in-between when the veil wavered, and just for a second, Lyra was complete. In reality, they were not truly apart, or one whole, just two echoes of grief, feeling the same silence.

She started writing again: letters, prayers, little notes.

“¿Adónde estás?”

“Do you still walk with me when it rains?”

She burned them in a bowl, watching the smoke swirl upward, praying it reached him. Sometimes, when she lit her candle, the flame leaned toward her as if it were listening. Other times, it sputtered, the wind outside howling like a voice she almost recognized.

The one who refused began to hear him too, but not in the same soft way. The hum came through the wood floor creaks, the radio, in all of her screaming dreams. Sometimes she thought she saw him standing by the door, but when she turned on the light, it was only the coat rack, empty.

She started keeping the lights on. She was now afraid of the dark, of the silence that no light could soothe. The more she drank, the louder his voice became. Not tender, not patient. It was the echo of her guilt, the way he would sound if he could see her now.

Both versions began to feel the same thing: restless, longing—a voice traveling through the distance.

One night, the one who remembered woke to the candle burning bright, the flame dancing taller than it ever had before. At that exact moment, the one who refused dropped her bottle, glass shattering and gasped as the radio whispered her name.

Lyra.

The voice was not angry, just tired, as if it had traveled far to find her.

**********************************************************************

In the blink of an eye came the anniversary of his death.

The sky was the same color as the day they buried him: gray, foggy, between rain and occasional sunlight. Both versions of her woke up restless. She had not planned to go anywhere, but both found themselves walking toward the same place: the graveyard behind the park, where her father used to play his guitar at sunset.

They walked through endless rows of tombstones, each feeling the same heaviness in their bones. The one who remembered brought a candle in a glass jar, Papa’s favorite fruits, and a guitar she had recently started learning to play. The one who refused brought nothing but her trembling hands.

The wind suddenly swirled around them, with the faint scent of smoke and sandalwood. In that moment, the field trembled, and a light flashed - not loud, just softly - and then the world stood still.

And there she was.

Staring at her own reflection.

Two parallel versions of herself, face to face.

The one with the candle whispered, “No tengas miedo.”

The other shook her head. “You don’t understand. He’s gone. I can’t hear his voice anymore!”

“You stopped listening,” she whispered back.

“I can’t stand this silence!”

The field trembled again, the candle flame flickering between them.

Then came his voice, soft, loving, steady.

“Aquí estoy, mija.”

Both of them froze, breath caught.

The one who refused began to cry - deep, shaking cries, release.

The one who remembered reached out, her hand trembling through the air, because she knew he was now the wind, the sunshine, and the rain.

And just like that, the space between them disappeared.

No more believing or refusing; just Lyra.

Now alone - in front of the tree growing next to his tombstone, the echo of her father’s voice resting in her chest - finally, a flicker of peace.

She silently wept.

“Gracias, Papá. Cuánto te extraño.”

**********************************************************************

Lyra’s mornings were now gentle - sunlight shining through her window, a whisper of how Papá would wake her. The pain of his absence rested quietly on her chest, a reminder of love.

The candle from the night before had completely burned down.

Today, she didn’t light a new one. The air already smelled of sandalwood.

She walked to the small altar on her desk, placed the mug, the crystals, and the photos, and then set a single marigold beside them.

“Para ti, papá. Buenos días. Yo sé que vendrás a visitarme pronto", she whispered.

There was no voice. No sign.

Just the warm sunlight against her skin.

She smiled, tears forming but not falling.

Somewhere deep inside, she knew her father wasn’t gone.

He was in the morning light, in her breath, in the quiet courage it took to keep living.

She closed her eyes and whispered,

“Gracias por quedarte conmigo.”

Picked up the guitar, sat by the window, and began to play.