Chapter 8: The Last Goodbye

After leaving, I bought a bunch of flowers—the kind people leave at graves, to remember the dead.

The florist didn’t ask questions, just wrapped the lilies and carnations in brown paper, tying them with twine. I carried them through the quiet Maple Heights streets, their scent mingling with cut grass and exhaust from passing cars.

I left them at my parents’ grave, enough to last a hundred years.

I stood a long time, rainwater seeping into my sneakers. I arranged the flowers, tucking a photo between the stems—a Fourth of July snapshot, sparklers in hand, faces bright with hope.

Afterwards, I went home to have a look.

The old house sagged under the weight of years—shingles missing, mailbox leaning like it had given up. I unlocked the door, hinges groaning, and stepped inside.

The house was covered in dust.

Sunbeams sliced through grime, dust motes dancing in the air. The kitchen smelled of old paper and dreams gone stale.

I didn’t clean or touch anything.

I let the memories settle where they were, not daring to disturb the past. The fridge still held my childhood magnets, faded to pastel. I let myself feel the ache, raw and honest.

I stood at the doorway a long time, until the sky was completely dark.

Crickets chirped. A neighbor’s porch light flickered on, casting long shadows. I tried to memorize every detail, knowing I might never come back.

There are no streetlights out here. I turned on my phone and saw it was nearly eleven.

The darkness was thick, but my phone’s glow was enough to guide me. I let the silence wrap around me, pressing memories close one last time.

I took a cab to Maple Heights. The city was quiet at night.

The cabbie didn’t ask questions, just nodded as I gave directions. The city lights shimmered in the distance, a ribbon of gold against velvet sky. It felt like the world was holding its breath.

Occasionally, a few motorcycles whizzed by—delivery drivers on late shifts.

The whine of engines echoed, headlights slicing through the darkness. Life kept moving even when mine felt stalled.

Dragging my suitcase, I stopped by the bridge.

The Cuyahoga River below roared, swollen from recent rains. I set my suitcase by the railing, heart thumping. The air was sharp with the promise of something ending.

No one paid me any attention, probably thinking I was just tired and resting with my suitcase.

A jogger passed, earbuds in, lost in their own world. A stray cat darted across the sidewalk. I was invisible, and for once, it felt like freedom.

I waited until midnight. No one passed by anymore.

The clock on my phone flashed 12:01. The city was hushed, only the river and distant hum of traffic. I pulled my jacket tighter, nerves jangling.

I wrote a note and left it on my suitcase, then climbed over the railing and jumped.

My hands shook as I scribbled the words—just a few lines for whoever found me, a final apology. The metal railing was cold as I swung my legs over, gravity tugging. I closed my eyes and let go.

The moment I jumped, I don’t know if I was imagining it, but I heard Matt’s voice—

It was distant, panicked, threading through the roar of water and wind. Maybe a memory, maybe just my mind playing tricks. But for a split second, it sounded real enough to make my heart twist one last time.

“Damn it, don’t jump, Aubrey!”

The river swallowed me whole. Somewhere above the roar, I thought I heard my name—one last time, one last chance.