Before the Sky Went Quiet: Part II - The Goodbye

Chapter Seven

The Last Clear Day

She knew the second she opened her eyes.

This was her last real day.

No pain.

No confusion.

No fog.

Just stillness. Just clarity.

She breathed in without effort. Her fingers twitched but obeyed. Her mind felt clean, like snow that hadn’t been stepped in yet.

She blinked toward the window. Sunlight spilled across the floor.

This was it.

Today was hers.

Calder noticed it in her face.

“You’re bright today,” he said.

Sora picked up the whiteboard.

“Today is mine.”

He didn’t ask what she meant.

She wrote again.

“Can we go for a drive?”

They didn’t talk on the way.

She pointed out old landmarks. Places from before.

The bakery where she and Mae used to steal napkins and write fake song lyrics.

The treehouse she fell out of in sixth grade.

The field where her mother taught her constellations.

Each one a tiny ghost.

At one turn, she tapped the window.

“Rook’s Point.”

Calder nodded and changed course.

At the cliff, he carried her out of the car. She didn’t fight it.

They sat in the grass together, a blanket beneath them.

The ocean below was loud. It didn’t apologize for it.

She leaned into his shoulder.

He didn’t speak.

Eventually, she wrote:

“When it gets worse…”

Then paused.

Then erased it.

Wrote again.

“Don’t wait too long.”

His throat tightened.

She stared at him.

Waited.

“Promise.”

He nodded slowly.

“I promise.”

Then she wrote again.

“Will you sing me out?”

He looked away.

“I will.”

That night, she asked to be brought to the attic.

Calder helped her into bed.

Set her notebook on the table.

Turned on her recorder.

She whispered into it:

“I had a good day.”

“I felt like myself.”

“Thank you for letting me leave while I was still her.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

He sat beside her until she fell asleep.

He didn’t play music.

He didn’t speak.

He just sat in the dark, listening to her breath.

And tried to memorize the rhythm before it changed.

Chapter Eight

What She Didn’t Say

Mae found the envelope tucked into her locker at school.

Her name was written in thick marker. No return address. No note.

Inside was a flash drive.

She stared at it during third period. Didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

By the time she got home, she already knew what it was.

She waited until the sun went down. Sat on her floor. Closed the blinds. Plugged in her headphones.

The file name was simple.

FOR MAE - FINAL.wav

She pressed play.

Sora’s voice crackled softly, then steadied.

“Hi.”

“You’re probably mad. I would be too.”

“I wanted to tell you this in person. But I ran out of voice. And time.”

Mae’s throat tightened.

“I love you.”

“Not the kind that’s safe.”

“The kind that makes it harder to leave.”

“You made dying feel like something I had to apologize for.”

“You made me want to stay. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

“I was afraid if I said it, I wouldn’t be able to go.”

Mae covered her mouth with her hands.

Tears blurred the screen.

She didn’t pause.

“You were the only thing that still felt like life.”

“You never had to say it back.”

“But if you felt it... thank you.”

“If you didn’t, that’s okay too.”

“I just needed you to know.”

“You mattered. You mattered more than anything.”

The audio cut out.

Then, one more whisper.

“I hope you sing again.”

Mae sat in silence.

Not grief.

Not shock.

Something smaller.

Something that crawled into the corners of her chest and refused to leave.

She opened the notes app on her phone.

Scrolled through her drafts.

Found the one she had written months ago.

“I think I love you. But I don’t know how to say it without ruining us.”

She never sent it.

She closed the app.

Then opened her voice recorder.

And pressed record.

Her voice cracked.

She didn’t stop.

Chapter Nine

The Quiet Took Her

The house had gone still two days earlier.

Sora hadn’t written anything. Hadn’t opened her eyes. Hadn’t moved.

She just breathed.

Slow. Shallow.

In and out.

Calder sat beside her bed, guitar in his lap.

He hadn’t played in years.

But tonight, he would.

She had asked him to.

He tuned the strings quietly, fingers shaking. The lamp glowed in the corner. The window was open just enough to let the wind inside.

He looked at her.

Her chest still rose.

Still fell.

He nodded to himself.

Then played the first chord.

It rang wrong.

Too sharp.

He didn’t fix it.

He kept going.

His voice cracked halfway through the first line.

He sang anyway.

I know this song won’t fix it

I know this won’t undo

But maybe in the silence

You’ll still remember you

Not the man who buried music

Not the man who broke

The man who once sang lullabies

And taught the stars to joke

His fingers slipped.

The chord hung in the air, unfinished.

He looked at her.

Stillness.

No breath.

No movement.

No goodbye.

Just the quiet.

He set the guitar down.

Turned off the recorder.

Closed the window.

Sat beside her.

And whispered, “You’re still here.”

But the room didn’t answer.

Only the quiet stayed.