Chapter 2 — Ethan’s Ritual

Ethan

The soft hum of the ceiling fan was the only sound in Ethan Carter’s modest bedroom as he sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders hunched over his phone. The screen cast a faint glow across his face, highlighting the faint lines etched by sleepless nights and unspoken grief. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, trembling slightly, as the ache in his chest spread like a slow, unwelcome tide.

It had been five years to the day. Five years since Anna had kissed him goodbye, her smile lingering in the doorway as she grabbed her coat. Five years since the phone call that shattered their lives. And for five years, Ethan had clung to this ritual—sending a message to her number, even though he knew no one would ever read it.

The leather journal sat on the nightstand beside him, its worn edges catching in the faint light. He reached for it instinctively, his fingers brushing the cover. The journal had always been his refuge, a quiet place to pour out the words he couldn’t say aloud. Tonight, though, it felt too isolating, too solitary. He needed something different—something that felt closer to her.

Ethan inhaled deeply, the scent of the sandalwood candle on the dresser curling into the air. It was her favorite, and even now, the faint aroma brought a bittersweet comfort. His gaze shifted to the framed photo of Anna beside the journal—a candid shot from their honeymoon. She was laughing, her dark curls catching the golden light, her hand clutching a book she’d insisted on bringing to the beach. He could almost hear her voice, warm and teasing, telling him to stop brooding. The memory was both a balm and a wound, fleeting and impossible to hold.

His fingers began to type.

*Hi, Anna.*

The simplicity of it felt inadequate, almost hollow, but he didn’t erase it. These messages were never polished, never rehearsed. They were raw, unfiltered pieces of himself—pieces too fragile, too sacred, to share with anyone else.

*I miss you. Every day, I miss you. Lucas is growing so fast—you’d be so proud of him. He has your stubborn streak, you know? And your way of making people feel like they matter. He’s been asking more about you lately. I try to tell him stories, but I always get stuck. How do you condense a lifetime into bedtime anecdotes?*

His thumb stilled over the keyboard, the weight of the words settling over him like a heavy blanket. Ethan set the phone down and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, willing the tears back. He rarely let himself cry anymore—not since Lucas had started watching him so closely, his wide hazel eyes mirroring Ethan’s every flicker of emotion.

Earlier that evening, Lucas had sat cross-legged on the floor of the bookshop, his small treasure box in his lap. He’d held up a crinkled photo of Anna, his voice soft but insistent.

“Do you think Mommy would want us to be happy again?”

The question had left Ethan frozen. He’d kissed Lucas on the forehead and mumbled something vague before tucking him into bed, but the words had gnawed at him ever since. Could happiness coexist with grief? Could moving forward mean anything other than forgetting?

He picked up the phone again.

*The bookshop’s still standing, somehow. I hope I’m doing it justice. Some days, it feels more like a shrine to you than a business. I don’t know if that’s fair to Lucas—or to me. But letting it go would feel like losing you all over again.*

The words blurred on the screen as tears welled in his eyes. He blinked them away quickly, brushing the back of his hand against his cheek. He’d learned to bury the worst of his grief, to keep it locked away where it couldn’t spill over and drown Lucas in its wake. But tonight, it bubbled too close to the surface, seeping through the cracks he’d worked so hard to seal.

For a moment, Ethan considered ending the message there. The ritual wasn’t about resolution or answers—it was about release. But Lucas’s question lingered, sharp and insistent.

*“Do you think Mommy would want us to be happy again?”*

Ethan’s fingers moved again, almost without his permission.

*I don’t know how to do this, Anna. I don’t know how to keep holding on to you while letting go. I’m so scared that if I move forward, it’ll mean losing you for good. Is that what you’d want?*

His heart pounded against his ribs as he stared at the words. His thumb hovered over the send button, hesitation gripping him. Sending the message felt final, as if he were admitting, even to himself, that he didn’t have the answers he so desperately sought. He gripped the phone tightly, his breaths shallow, his shoulders rigid.

With a sharp exhale, he pressed send.

For a moment, the act felt like exhaling after holding his breath too long. The room seemed to settle around him, the tension in his chest easing just enough for him to breathe. He set the phone down and waited for the familiar rush of bittersweet relief that usually followed this ritual.

But then, the screen lit up with a notification—a reply.

Ethan froze. His breath caught, his mind racing as panic clawed its way up his spine. He hadn’t received a reply in five years. The number had been disconnected—or so he’d thought. Had it been reassigned? Had some stranger just read his most vulnerable thoughts?

His hand trembled as he opened the message. The words staring back at him were simple, unassuming, but they hit him like a bolt of lightning.

*“I don’t know how to let go either.”*

He reread the message several times, his mind reeling. Who was this? Why had they replied? And why did their words resonate so deeply, like an echo of his own thoughts?

His first instinct was to ignore it, to pretend it hadn’t happened. This was his ritual, his private connection to Anna. Letting someone else into it felt like an intrusion, a betrayal. But another part of him—a quieter, lonelier part—was curious. Whoever this was, they understood something about loss. Their words weren’t dismissive or flippant. They were raw, vulnerable, and painfully honest.

He hesitated for several long moments, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. Finally, he began to type.

*“I wasn’t expecting a reply. Who are you?”*

The response came quickly, almost too quickly.

*“Someone who’s also trying to figure out how to hold on and let go.”*

Ethan frowned, his fingers hovering over the screen. The ambiguity was frustrating, but there was something oddly comforting about the exchange. For the first time in years, he didn’t feel judged or pitied—just… understood.

*“Why did you reply?”* he typed, each word deliberate.

There was a pause, long enough for doubt to creep in. But then the dots appeared, signaling their response.

*“Because your words felt familiar. Like something I’d say if I were braver.”*

Ethan leaned back against the headboard, his mind spinning. He didn’t know what to make of this person or their intentions, but their words struck a chord he hadn’t expected. For the first time in years, he felt something other than the oppressive weight of grief. It wasn’t hope, not yet—but it was close.

*“Thank you,”* he typed finally, unsure of what else to say.

The reply was immediate.

*“Thank you for sharing.”*

The ceiling fan hummed softly above as Ethan set the phone on his nightstand, his fingers brushing against the leather journal beside it. He didn’t know who this person was or why they’d chosen to reply, but they’d sparked something in him—a flicker of light in the darkness he’d grown so used to.

For the first time in five years, Ethan allowed himself to wonder what it might feel like to let go—not of Anna, but of the fear that had kept him so tightly bound to the past.