Up in the Clouds
Winter wrapped the city in silence.
The sky was a dull silver, heavy with snow that refused to fall, and the cemetery stretched out before me like a sea of marble islands adrift in fog. The world held its breath — no birdsong, no footsteps but my own, just the soft creak of branches weighed down by frost.
The air was sharp enough to bite. It smelled of rain long frozen, of pine and stone, and that faint metallic scent that lingers after grief — like air that's been wept into. Each exhale left a small ghost behind me, dissolving into the mist.
I walked slowly between the graves. The snow beneath my shoes groaned softly, crunching in rhythm with the fragile drum of my heartbeat. My fingers burned from the cold despite the gloves, but I didn't care.
And then — there she was.
Ayah Ferdous.
Her name was carved into white marble, perfect and cruel. Frost had gathered in the grooves of each letter, catching what little light the sky offered, glimmering like frozen tears. The world around me dimmed — the trees blurred, the air stilled — until there was nothing left but her name and the echo of my breathing.
I knelt, the snow yielding beneath my weight. The chill seeped through my coat, climbing up my spine like the whisper of something divine and unforgiving. The scent of wet soil and pine surrounded me, grounding me in a pain that felt too familiar to resist.
I set the bouquet of irises at the base of her headstone — her favorite, even in winter. Their violet petals looked almost electric against the whiteness, defiant, trembling in the wind. A few crystals of snow had caught on their edges, glinting like stars that had fallen just to rest with her.
"Morning," I whispered. My voice came out raw, dissolving into the cold. "It's been… a while."
The breeze shifted — gentle, almost human — carrying the faintest trace of jasmine and soap. Her scent. My breath hitched. For a moment, I could almost believe she was standing behind me, her warmth brushing the back of my neck.
"I don't even know what to say to you anymore," I murmured. "The house is quiet, the air feels wrong, and my paintings…" My voice faltered. "They don't look like anything anymore."
The memory came unbidden — her laughter in the studio, the soft smudge of paint on her cheek, her hand resting on my shoulder as she said, 'You're chasing perfection, not truth.'
"I still hear you," I said. "You tell me to fix the light, to leave the shadows alone. I keep waiting for your voice to fade, but it never does."
A gust of wind swept through the cemetery, scattering powdery snow across the graves. The irises trembled, and one petal tore loose, spiraling through the air until it landed in my palm — delicate, trembling, impossibly warm. For that fleeting second, I swore it carried her heartbeat.
"Do you remember that night?" My lips quivered into a half-smile that didn't last. "When we argued about who'd die first?"
I gave a soft, broken laugh. "You called me dramatic. You said, Then I can't afford to die first, can I?"
The smile vanished. "You lied," I whispered. "You promised we'd grow old enough to get tired of each other. You said we'd fight about coffee, about which painting looked better, about faith — and that we'd figure it out."
The snow thickened, falling gently now, blanketing her grave in white lace. My tears burned down my cheeks, hot against the winter air.
"I can't forgive you for leaving me," I said, my breath shaking, "but I can't stop loving you either. It's like trying to breathe underwater — painful, impossible, but instinct."
The wind quieted. The whole cemetery felt suspended between worlds, as though heaven itself were listening. And then, faintly, through the hush, I heard it — her voice, soft as falling snow.
"There are no farewells in this world, Aubrey. Not between you and me."
My chest ached.
"We'll meet again in paradise."
"Don't," I whispered. "Don't say that. I'm not ready for paradise. I'm not ready to let you stay gone."
The stillness that followed felt like the world was holding its breath. Then her voice again, gentler this time — like light through a veil.
"Then live, Aubrey. Live the way I can't."
The words cut cleanly through the frost. My tears came harder. I pressed my forehead to the stone, the marble freezing against my skin. The scent of cold earth rose around me — the smell of endings that refuse to end.
"How?" I whispered. "How do I live when everything beautiful hurts because it reminds me of you?"
The wind stirred the snow in lazy spirals. The mist shifted, and a single ray of sunlight broke through the clouds. It caught the edge of her name and set it glowing — Ayah Ferdous, shimmering like it had been carved by the dawn itself.
For a heartbeat, it felt as though she could hear me.
"I'll keep you alive," I said softly. "In every stroke of paint, in every prayer, in every dawn."
I stayed until my knees went numb, until the cold gnawed through every layer of me. The irises trembled in the wind, their violet edges kissed with frost. One petal caught the sun, gleaming gold for an instant before drifting away.
Like her smile — fleeting, eternal.
The car door shut with a muffled thud, echoing through the empty lot. The scent of damp soil, snow, and irises followed me inside, clinging to the leather seats. I didn't start the engine right away. My reflection stared back at me from the rear-view mirror — eyes hollow, face pale. Not red from crying, just… empty.
My heart felt like a clock that had lost its rhythm — still ticking, but out of sync with life.
When the engine finally hummed, the heater blew warm air I couldn't feel. I drove slowly, the tires whispering over snow-slick asphalt. The windshield glared with sunlight, scattering shards of gold across the dashboard. Too bright. Too alive.
The city ahead shimmered like glass — cold, indifferent, unbothered by the dead. People hurried through streets lined with frost-bitten trees. Laughter burst from somewhere unseen. The world had the audacity to keep going.
Grief, I've learned, isn't a wound. It's weather — something you live beneath. Some days it rains. Others, it's snow.
Kennedy's text appeared on my screen:Sir, the visitor should be here by noon. I'll prepare the guest room after my shift.
A visitor. My father's doing, no doubt. The thought made my chest tighten — the idea of another stranger stepping into a house still haunted by her scent.
The phone buzzed again. I ignored it.
Then I saw it — a bakery tucked between two buildings, its windows glowing amber against the winter grey. I didn't think; I just turned the wheel.
The tires hissed against slush as I parked. The motion jolted me back into my body.
When I opened the door, warmth wrapped around me. The air smelled of butter, coffee, sugar — comfort, alive and human. It should have soothed me, but instead it ached.
Inside, the bakery was everything the world outside wasn't — golden, loud, breathing. The hiss of steam, the scrape of chairs, the laughter of strangers. The walls were honey-colored, adorned with photographs and ribbons.
Ayah had loved places like this. "Bakeries are where people celebrate life," she used to say, eyes bright. "Birthdays, beginnings, second chances."
And here I was — surrounded by beginnings, dragging behind me an ending I couldn't bury.
I ordered absently — a small cake — and leaned against the counter. My gloves were still cold with snow.
Then came the first click.A flash of white.Then another.
Phones. Cameras.
Someone gasped. "It's him — Aubrey Ardel!"
My pulse quickened. The world blurred under flashes. I took a step back. "Please," I said, voice strained. "I just came for my order."
The bakery owner — a woman with flour on her apron — smiled too brightly. "My bakery will be famous now!" she laughed. "The great Aubrey Ardel himself! We'll be in tomorrow's paper!"
I forced a smile that cracked at the edges. "That's kind. But I'd rather just take it and go."
She was already waving to a photographer. "Just one picture, sir! For our promotion!"
The flashes multiplied — bursts of white heat in my skull. My breathing faltered. The world tilted.
The phone vibrated in my pocket. Dad.
"Where are you?" His voice was sharp, the kind that filled rooms.
"In a bakery," I muttered. "Forgot my mask. Cameras everywhere."
A pause. Then, that familiar authority. "Stay put. I'm sending someone."
"Dad, it's not—"
The line went dead.
I exhaled, slow and unsteady. Around me, strangers whispered my name. Mr. Ardel, one photo, please.
And suddenly, I felt that fracture again — between the man I was and the one they expected.
Behind my eyelids, her face flickered — not painted, not imagined, just there. Her voice threaded through the noise:
"Then live, Aubrey. Live the way I can't."
"I'm trying," I whispered, half to her, half to myself. "But I don't know how."
The door swung open with a sharp chime. Two men stepped inside — my father's security. Their presence stilled the room instantly.
"Mr. Ardel," one said gently. "Let's get you home."
I nodded, wordless.
The moment the door closed behind us, the cold struck like absolution — sharp, clean, real. The cameras stopped flashing. The noise vanished. Only the hum of wind remained, brushing snow from rooftops.
In the car, the cake sat untouched on the passenger seat, its white frosting catching the sunlight like marble.
Outside, the city glittered under a sheet of snow — alive, indifferent.
I looked up at the pale sky, and for a moment, just above the clouds, I thought I saw her face. Only a flicker. Only enough to keep me breathing.