The funeral had ended. The people who came to say their final goodbyes had already left.
Ava stood in front of the fresh grave, holding her three-year-old son, Nazi, in her arms. The wind was quiet. The world felt strangely still.
Someone tapped her shoulder gently, the last guest. Ava nodded without looking. They said a few soft words of comfort and then walked away.
Now, it was just her and Nazi.
Her tears wouldn't stop. They fell silently down her cheeks. Her father, the only person she had left in this world, was now gone.
Her mother had passed away when she was still a child. Since then, it had been just her and her father. He had raised her alone, worked hard to support her, and never once complained. He was quiet and strong. He never asked for anything, but he was always there.
And now, he wasn't.
Ava looked down at her son. Nazi had fallen asleep on her shoulder, small hands curled around her jacket. His face was peaceful, unaware of what had happened. She gently stroked his back.
"We're the only ones left now," she whispered. "Just you and me."
She had a husband once. Two years ago, he made the painful decision to become a seafarer. It wasn't something he wanted, but work was hard to find, and their savings were almost gone. With a newborn baby to care for and bills piling up, he took the only job that could provide for them, a contract on a cargo ship. The pay was better than anything he could earn nearby, even if it meant long months away at sea.
He promised it would just be for a little while.
But the ship never came back.
It sank during a violent storm. His body was never recovered. He was presumed dead.
Now she's alone. No parents. No husband. Just her and Nazi, trying to survive each day, one step at a time.
A quiet cough behind her made her turn.
It was her father's lawyer, a middle-aged man in a dark gray suit. He bowed his head slightly in respect.
"Ms. Ava," he said softly, "your father left something for you. He asked me to give it to you if anything ever happened to him."
He held out a plain envelope.
Ava wiped her tears quickly and took it with one hand, careful not to wake Nazi.
"Thank you," she said.
"I'm sorry, but I have to leave now," the lawyer said. "If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to call me."
He bowed again and walked away without another word.
Ava looked down at the envelope in her hand. It was simple. Unmarked. Sealed shut.
She held it against her chest for a moment, then looked back at the grave.
"…What did you leave me, Dad?" she whispered.
The wind picked up slightly, brushing her hair across her face.
She didn't know yet that this envelope would change everything. That inside it was the first step to something far bigger than her grief, bigger than anything she could imagine.
But for now, she just held it close… and walked away, holding her son tightly in her arms.
"Thank you, Attorney," Ava said softly.
The man bowed once more and walked away, his steps disappearing into the distance.
Left alone, Ava looked down at the envelope in her hand. It was light. She opened it carefully.
Inside was a single key and a small piece of paper. On it, a code was written in her father's handwriting.
"A vault code?" she whispered.
When she arrived at her father's farm, the sun was already beginning to set.
She tucked Nazi into bed first. The boy had fallen asleep again during the ride, his small body exhausted from the day. She placed a light blanket over him, then quietly closed the bedroom door behind her.
Her father's room hadn't changed. It still smelled faintly of coffee and old paper. She stood in front of his closet, hesitating only for a second before pulling the door open.
There it was. A small vault built into the wall.
She entered the code slowly.
Click.
Inside were three things: a sealed envelope, a thick stack of bills, and a small black box.
Her breath caught.
The cash was neatly bundled.
"Dad…" she whispered.
Her chest tightened as she reached for the envelope.
To my beloved daughter, Ava,
If you're reading this, it means I'm no longer with you.
I'm sorry.
I wish I had more time with you… and with our little Nazi. I wish I could've watched him grow up, and seen you smile again like you used to. But if this is truly the end for me, then this letter is all I can leave behind.
I know it isn't much. Just a small amount I've saved, use it however you need. For you, for Nazi. Live a little easier, if you can.
There's one more thing inside the box. You'll probably find it strange. It's a pair of contact lenses.
They came from your husband.
Right before he left on that ship, he gave them to me. He didn't explain much. Just said, "Give these to Ava when she has no one left to lean on. It will be useful when the sky opens and the world turns dark."
I didn't understand what he meant back then. Honestly, I still don't. But I promised him I would follow his words.
So I kept them safe.
I know you might be angry. I know how hard it's been. But if you're reading this now… maybe the time has come. Maybe this is what he was trying to prepare you for.
I don't know what those lenses are or what they do. But your husband believed they would help you.
That's enough for me to believe it too.
Take care of yourself, Ava. And tell Nazi, when he's old enough, that his grandpa loved him very much.
I love you both. Always.
– Dad
By the time she finished reading, Ava's hands were shaking.
Tears spilled down her cheeks as she pressed the letter to her chest.
"I love you too…" she whispered. "You didn't need to say sorry, Dad…"
She dropped to her knees, crying softly, the letter still in her hands.
A small noise made her look up.
Nazi had come into the room, rubbing his eyes. He looked at her, then toddled over and wrapped his arms around her.
"Mommy… don't cry," he mumbled, leaning into her.
Ava held him tightly.
There were no more words to say. Just the two of them, holding each other.
As the sky outside darkened. They went back home to her condominium in the City.