Leaves, Seasons, and Dead Trees (BxB)

19. - Goodbyes or, Preferably, Farewells

"Body's growing old, where'd the day go?
And all I want to do is be free of you
I know a priest
Maybe If I go, you'll be summoned"

- "Priest" by Logan Bowden -

*****

So, I kinda messed up with this whole law degree thing in the story. Turns out, in the US, it's not just law. Anyways, I fixed a few things here and there. Here are the things that have changed: (i) Instead of one, Samuel took two gap years, (ii) it's now "Pre-Law" and not just "Law," (iii) Tyson did four years of study (like any other majors), and (iv) Foster's stuck on his thesis. Oh, and I tweaked some chapters where they talk about law or academics. Hopefully, there are no more temporal plot holes and the timeline flows better now. That being said, I hope you enjoy this chapter! (Word count: 6122 words)

⚠️TW: death, suicide, grief

*****

Samuel

Arriving around 10 AM at Maya's... late grandmother's house, I encounter a scene of fading grandeur. The small two-story Victorian home, painted in peeling peach hues, is watched over by an aging hackberry tree towering in the front yard. A police car rests by the curb, its presence a solemn note in the otherwise quiet neighborhood. Treading the walkway, a German Shepherd police officer, cigarette smoke curling around him, regards me with suspicion from the stoop.

His imposing figure straightens as we draw closer. "Can I help you, sir?"

"I'm just... a friend of Maya Quintana. Just, uh, dropping by to check up on her." I gesture with a bag of fresh bagels in my paw.

The officer nods, his eyes never leaving me as he settles back onto the stoop. "Be gentle with her, kid. She's going through a real rough patch."

"Of course, sir." With a nod of acknowledgment, I step past him and into the house.

As the door creaks open, the scent of aged wood and lemon polish greets me. The narrow entryway bears the marks of time, with faded wallpaper and worn curtains filtering dim light. To my left, the living room, adorned in pale-yellow wallpaper, stands sparsely furnished, a silent testament to its occupants' pragmatic existence. Maya sits on a well-worn couch, her eyes fixed on a creased letter held in her hooves. Her weary gaze meets mine as I approach.

"Hey, Maya."

She looks up, her expression hollow, her eyes bloodshot. "Hi."

Seating myself on an ottoman opposite her, I place the bag of bagels on the coffee table between us. "I know it's stupid, but... how are you?"

She shrugs a shoulder. "Tired." Her eyes drift away, lost in some distant thought.

My claws twiddle around, uncertain of what to say next. "I'm here for you if you need anything."

"It's been a long night, you know?" Maya begins, her voice tremulous. "After I found my nana... I called 911. The police came first, then the paramedics." She glances at the bag of bagels, her eyes dry and distant, resisting my impulse to offer solace and intrude on her boundary. "They went inside her room. Then they asked me questions... lots of questions." Her grip tightens around the letter she holds. "Then they gave me this. Said they found it under her pillow."

I remember writing a suicide note once. I burned it the day I started smoking, using my first-ever-bought lighter. Then, I tossed the noose away in a neighbor's trash bin on my way home from school. I didn't write one during my second miserable attempt.