Page 89 of Shattered
“Even when it looks like this?”
“You’re beautiful, Delia. Everything you create is.”
Sunday dinner happened at Daniel’s apartment now.
His apartment was modern and sterile—nothing like Mom’s warm, chaotic space. But it was neutral ground. A place we could rebuild family dinners without her ghost sitting at every empty chair.
Maria came. Sarah came with Lily. Axel came because he was mine now and I wasn’t hiding that anymore.
We ate takeout because none of us could cook like Mom. We told stories about her. We cried and laughed and learned how to exist in her absence.
After dinner, Daniel pulled me aside.
“I’m glad you’re letting Axel back in,” he said.
“Me too.”
“I was worried. Those weeks you wouldn’t talk to anyone…” His voice tightened. “I thought I was losing you too.”
The guilt hit sharp and immediate. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Grief makes people do strange things. I understand.” He paused. “Mom would be happy about you and Axel, too.”
I didn’t answer right away. I just stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him. He stiffened for half a second, surprised, then hugged me back just as tight, his chin resting on the top of my head like it used to when we were kids.
“I’m sorry,” I said again, muffled against his chest. “For scaring you. Again.”
He let out a small breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “You don’t get rid of me that easily.” He pulled back just enough to look at me. “I love you, little sis.”
My throat closed, but I smiled. “I love you too, Danny.”
He squeezed me once more before letting go—warm and familiar, like being reminded I wasn’t alone after all.
One evening, Axel took me to the museum he’d built five years earlier.
He’d told me once—sitting in my mother’s bedroom—that I was the reason he did any of it. That his work, his obsession with light and space and preservation, had started with the way I saw the world. I hadn’t known what to do with that kind of confession then. It had felt too big. Too undeserved.
A gallery designed with my work in mind. A promise waiting patiently for a version of me I hadn’t been ready to become.
There was no ceremony as we walked in. No announcement. Just Axel beside me, his attention fixed on me in that quiet way he had, like the night belonged to us alone. I wore a simple dress, soft fabric skimming my knees, something I’d chosen without much thought but that suddenly felt like enough. Like I didn’t have to dress up to deserve any of this.
Walking beside him now, I looked around in fascination.
Axel didn’t just collect art. He built places where it could breathe. Where it could wait without being forgotten. Every wall, every corridor, was about giving fragile things a chance to exist without apology. Standing there, I realized his work wasn’tabout legacy or prestige. It was about faith. About believing something quiet and unfinished could still matter.
The thought settled warm and heavy in my chest.
I looked at him as we walked—dark blonde hair catching the light, grey eyes thoughtful and steady, the kind of man people trusted without quite knowing why. There was an ease to him, a charm that didn’t perform. He moved through the space like it belonged to him, but his attention never left me.
Love crept in softly. It had been there before—but never this overwhelming. Deeper. Truer.
I felt it then, clear and undeniable. I wasn’t just proud of him. I was in awe of him. Of the way he built his life around patience. Around belief. Around me.
“Here it is,” he said, leading me toward a smaller, more intimate gallery. Intimate. The evening sunlight streamed through tall windows designed to shift with the day, the light soft and forgiving, the kind that made colors breathe.
“This room was designed for emerging artists,” Axel said, though I knew he wasn’t really explaining it for my benefit. “Artists whose work deserves to be seen before the world decides whether it’s worthy.”
He stepped closer. “I’ve been imagining you in this room for five years,” he said softly. “I wanted it ready the moment you were.”
