The Burning Rose

P R O L O G U E

A broken heart is all that's left
I'm still fixing all the cracks
Lost a couple of pieces when
I carried it, carried it, carried it home
— Arcade by Duncen Laurence

Life is just a pile of shit.

"Summer?" My grandmother called out to me, bringing me back from my rather depressing and constant reverie. "Are you sure you want to do this alone?"

My eyes roamed the walk-in closet. "I'll only be taking the important stuff. I'll have the maids pack up everything else for donation or something," I answered dully.

She heaved a sigh. "Alright. Nana will be downstairs if you need help."

"Okay."

No. Life was like gambling.

At a certain point in our lives, we would have the right cards in our hands with a perfect game strategy in mind. We would be confident that it would work, but just when we think we'd finally be able to win and gain control of our own lives, the unexpected happens. Life would throw in a better set of cards, making us lose the game, lose the gamble, and again, lose control of the decisions in our lives. And no matter how hard we try to fight it, we'd still find ourselves on the losing end, leaving us with no other choice but to live with whatever happens, even if it kills so much of who or what we are.

My life spiraled when I discovered my mother's sickness by accident when I tidied up her study. One could only imagine how I reacted — I was furious and terrified. Furious because she hid it from me for several months and terrified because I wasn't ready to lose the person who mattered the most to me.

Inhaling deeply, my eyes fluttered close as the scent of her that still lingered in the air enveloped me in a cocoon of longing and despair. I could remember everything from the three months leading up to her death, down to the tiniest details; the smell, voices, fights, pain, and the sight of a once healthy woman who rotted in just a week and disappeared.

I relived those moments often in my mind, bringing them back to life, and whenever I did, I always felt a combination of anger, sadness, embarrassment, and regret.

Where was I? I asked myself repeatedly.

I opened my eyes and walked over to her wardrobe, sliding the door open and scanning her clothes, disheartened by the idea of disposing of it all. She loved her clothes; I couldn't just get rid of them.

Releasing a long breath, I sank into my mother's wing chair and leaned forward with my head down, my hair falling to curtain my face. I knew I wasn't processing the grief well, shunning myself away from everyone else like I was the plague itself.

To put it bluntly, I wasn't processing all my recent life events.

During my mother's wake, my grandmother encouraged me to inform my father of her death. I was initially doubtful of the idea, not only because I hadn't seen or heard of him for most of my life but also because I knew I wouldn't be able to handle talking about it. I did call my father that day. I stayed silent for a good three minutes, afraid that my voice would give away the truth of my wailing heart. Then he called my name, and my heart thudded against my chest in pain. I informed him of what happened and ended the call before he could say anything.

Ducking my head under my hands, I clenched my jaw to stop the tears that pooled in my eyes. I started counting backward in my head, taking a deep breath with every number. When the pressure in my chest finally eased, I raised my chin and scanned the room. The memories flashed before my eyes as I absorbed every detail, every nook and cranny. It was only us against the world.

Not anymore. She left me.

Sighing once more, I spotted a purple box at the bottom of the vanity shelf. My eyebrows pulled together in curiosity; I had never seen it before. I walked over to the shelf to pick it up, my forehead creasing even more at the sight of my mother's name embossed on the cover.

Sarah.

I lifted the box to my eye level, scanning it thoroughly, looking for anything out of the ordinary. When I found nothing else but the odd-shaped lock at the center, my eyes widened in realization. I hurriedly placed the box on the chair, then removed the heart locket around my neck and opened it, revealing pictures of my mother and me. I gave this locket to her three months before she passed away.

It was worth the shot.

I fit the locket into the molded lock, my stomach lurching in anticipation for what awaited me. Hearing the sound of a click, I drew in a deep breath.

With my heart pounding and hands trembling, I lifted the cover.

"What the—?" I muttered to myself as I rummaged through the contents.

Letters?

A U T H O R ' S   N O T E

Finally, the updates for The Burning Rose begin! Thank you so much for giving my first book a chance. I hope you enjoyed the prologue; let me know what you think!

Just want to give a quick shoutout to Myst3ry007, authoressperfekt, and GayatriRamchandran for being so supportive, for motivating me, and for being a great friend! I wouldn't have come this far if it weren't for you. 🤍