The rain tasted of ash. Lira stood on the slick stones of the riverbank, letting it plaster her dark hair to her forehead. Each drop felt like a tiny weight mirroring the one in her heart. It had been three weeks since Isabella crossed over, and the world hadn’t righted itself; it had simply tilted on its axis, leaving Lira perpetually off-balance.

Transitions were supposed to be gentle. Isabella’s hadn't been. The fever had come swift and merciless, stealing her older sister in three short days. Lira, barely seventeen, felt utterly adrift without Isabella’s steadying presence.

Our family was rooted deep in the Old Ways. We honored the turning of the seasons, spoke to the spirits of the land, and believed death wasn't an ending but a return – a shedding of skin for another journey. But knowing that didn’t fill the hollow ache where Isabella used to be.

“Lira?” Father’s voice was rough with concern. He approached slowly, his weathered hands clasped behind his back. He hadn’t shaved since Isabella passed, and a silver stubble shadowed his jaw. “You shouldn't linger here so long in the rain. You’ll catch your death.”

“Isabella isn’t hearing me,” Lira said, her voice barely a whisper. She didn’t turn to face her father. "Maybe… maybe if I call out loud enough, she’ll hear me."

Father sighed and sat beside her on a moss-covered boulder. “She hears you, child. They all do. But they aren't here in the way we are.” He reached for her hand, his touch warm and grounding. "Isabella wouldn't want you to waste away with grief."

“How can I not grieve?” Lira finally looked at him, tears blurring her vision. “She was everything. She taught me how to read the stars, how to identify herbs, how to braid my hair…she protected me from everything.”

Isabella had always been the strong one, the practical one. Lira was the dreamer, lost in stories and visions. Isabella had anchored her, kept her feet on the ground while letting her spirit soar. Now, the anchor was gone.

“She lives on in you,” Father said softly. “In your knowledge, in your kindness, in the way you see the world.”

Lira shook her head. "It's not enough."

The upcoming Samhain festival loomed over everything like a dark cloud. It was the most sacred night of the year for us – when the veil between worlds thinned and communication with ancestors was easiest. Father, as the family’s hearth keeper, was preparing a grand offering: a woven basket filled with the first fruits of the harvest, candles crafted from beeswax, and a small carving Isabella had made years ago - a raven in flight.

“I don't want to celebrate,” Lira told him, watching him arrange the offerings. “It feels…wrong. Like celebrating while she’s gone.”

Father paused, his gaze meeting hers. "Samhain isn't about ignoring grief, Lira. It's about acknowledging it, honoring those who have passed, and reaffirming our connection to the cycle of life." He gestured towards the river. “Isabella wouldn’t want us to shut ourselves off from the spirits. She loved this night.”

He asked her to help prepare the ritual space – a clearing in the woods close to the river. As Lira worked, arranging stones and scattering dried herbs, she felt a strange resistance within herself. It wasn't just sadness; it was…anger. Anger at Isabella for leaving, anger at the fever for taking her, anger at the Gods for allowing it to happen.

That night, under a bruised purple sky, the family gathered. Mother chanted ancient verses, her voice resonating with power. Father lit the central bonfire, sending sparks spiraling into the darkness. Lira stood numbly beside them, watching the flames dance and listening to the rhythmic drumming by her younger brother.

As the ritual reached its peak, Father called out to the ancestors, inviting their presence. “Spirits of our blood, guardians of this land, we honor you! We remember those who have walked before us, and welcome your guidance!”

Lira closed her eyes, trying to connect, but felt nothing. Just a hollow emptiness. Then, she heard it – a faint whisper carried on the wind.

“Lira…don’t be afraid.”

She gasped, opening her eyes. The voice was undeniably Isabella's, yet different somehow - lighter, more ethereal. She looked towards the river and saw a shimmering mist rising from its surface, coalescing into a fleeting image of her sister.

Isabella wasn’t solid, but an impression – a memory given form. Her smile was radiant, her eyes filled with a peace Lira hadn't seen in years.

“Isabella?” Lira breathed, tears streaming down her face.

The image flickered. “I’m here, little sister. I’m well.”

“It hurts so much,” Lira sobbed. “Everything feels broken without you.”

Isabella reached out a hand, and though she couldn't physically touch Lira, the gesture felt profoundly comforting. "Grief is part of it, Lira. It's the price we pay for love. But don’t let it consume you."

“But how can I go on?”

Isabella smiled sadly. “You have a gift, Lira. A vision. You see things others cannot. Don’t hide from that. Use it.” She paused, her form growing fainter. "Remember the stories I told you? The ones about the star-weavers?"

Lira remembered. Isabella had filled her head with tales of celestial beings who wove constellations and guided souls through the afterlife.

“They need someone to remember them now,” Isabella whispered. “Someone to keep their stories alive.”

"But...I'm not strong like you."

Isabella’s voice was barely audible now. "You are stronger than you know. You have a fire within you, Lira. Let it burn."

The image of Isabella dissolved into the mist, leaving Lira trembling and breathless. The chanting continued around her, but she no longer felt disconnected. A spark had ignited within her – a flicker of purpose.

She looked at Father, who was watching her with knowing eyes. He nodded encouragingly. Lira took a deep breath and joined in the chant, her voice shaky at first, then growing stronger with each verse.

As she sang, she began to see things differently. Lira realized that her sister wasn’t truly gone – she lived on in the stories, in the memories, and in the love that bound their family together.

The Samhain fire burned brightly throughout the night, casting long shadows that danced like spirits. Lira stayed by the river until dawn, not with despair, but with a newfound sense of peace. She knew the grief wouldn’t vanish overnight, but she also knew she wasn't alone.

She picked up a smooth, grey stone from the riverbank and held it tight in her hand. It was cold and solid, a tangible reminder of Isabella’s presence. Then, looking out at the flowing water, Lira whispered a promise: “I will remember you, Isabella. I will keep your stories alive.”

The rain had stopped. A single ray of sunlight broke through the clouds, illuminating the river with a golden glow. And for the first time in weeks, Lira felt a glimmer of hope – not a denial of her grief, but a quiet acceptance that even in darkness, light could still be found. The current flowed onward, and she knew, somehow, that Isabella was waiting on the other side, weaving stars into the fabric of eternity.

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