Aria awoke slowly, her eyes prying themselves open to the stars adorning her bedroom ceiling. Those little luminous constellations had clung there for as long as she could remember, a nocturnal embrace that whispered stories of her childhood. Her father had helped her stick over a thousand of those glow-in-the-dark stars, forming her personal nightlight. Each gleaming speck summoned memories she could hardly bear without tears.
She drew the cover over her head, determined to reclaim a few moments of sleep. Today marked the anniversary of her loss, a year since Ethan Michael Williams had departed this world. Some days, she wished she could retreat into slumber and escape life's painful reminders. Today was undeniably one of those days.
Ethan Michael Williams, her father and her dearest friend, had been a tireless laborer. He toiled, even when exhaustion beckoned, agreeing to work overtime despite the weariness. It was that dedication that ultimately claimed him. The police's grim account painted a picture of his fateful accident: he had drifted to sleep at the wheel, veering off the road and colliding with a tree. It had followed a third consecutive double shift at the local factory.
Aria had once shouldered the guilt for that accident, fervently believing her car was to blame. She couldn't accept that her father had fallen asleep. Yet the sheriff's investigation left no room for doubt – there was no evidence of an attempt to brake. He had careened off the road, leaving her bereft.
Her name, Aria Michael, bore the indelible mark of her father's affection. He had been her sole parent, unwavering in his devotion. He never missed her school events and regularly took her fishing at the nearby lake. Though she might have felt the absence of a mother, it had never been a void. Aria cherished her father, her heart telling her that her life would have been vastly different and not for the better had her mother been present. You couldn't miss someone you didn't remember.
The woman referred to as her mother had vanished from their lives when Aria was just a day old. A hazy memory – a story others had shared – painted her as Isabella. She had informed the hospital staff that she was stepping out for a walk and had never returned. Her note, discovered later, claimed she felt trapped and unprepared to fulfill their needs. Aria's father had endured the heartbreak silently, bearing the weight and ensuring her care with the help of friends. Her mother's belongings had remained untouched, first in his closet, and later in their storage shed, hidden from Aria's inquisitive eyes.
On her thirteenth birthday, her father had gifted her a necklace – a delicate white gold cross adorned with diamonds. Aria had adored it until she discovered its origin in Isabella's possession. In hindsight, she realized her father had intended it as a connection to her absent mother. But at the time, she had raged, convinced he sought to shape her in Isabella's image, which she abhorred. It had sparked their first major argument, leading to a week of strained silence. A week she would now give anything to have back, to express her understanding of his intentions.
Aria had always been told that she resembled Isabella more than her child, though she hardly considered herself "her child." In her eyes, Isabella was nothing more than the surrogate who had brought her to her father. Yet, she couldn't deny the striking resemblance, from the heart-shaped face to the butterscotch blonde hair that cascaded halfway down her back. She stood at around five feet seven inches, matching the description she had heard of her mother's height. The only feature she inherited from her father was his hazel eyes, a cherished reminder of him. Her father had never compared her to her mother, despite the irrational fears of her thirteen-year-old self. He wouldn't have wanted her to harbor ill feelings toward Isabella; he had never spoken ill of her. Still, Aria couldn't summon any interest in the woman who had abandoned her father and her.
With her father's passing, Aria had mostly confined herself to her job and the cabin he had built for Isabella. It was a modest two-bedroom cedar cabin nestled in the southern Ohio woods. To others, it might appear unimpressive, with its small porch and dirt driveway. But to Aria, it was a sanctuary. There were no neighbors for miles, offering the solitude she craved. She could sit on her porch swing in her pajamas without the fear of prying eyes. Occasionally, wild creatures sought to raid her strawberry patch, a joint project between her and her father that had started when she was seven. His friends dropped by weekly to check on her since his passing, though she had taken to ignoring their visits.
Aria's immediate family had dwindled to nothing with her father's departure, and distant relatives remained a mystery. He had been an only child, and her grandmother had passed away the year she was born. Her grandfather had left her life when she was ten. She had no knowledge of any surviving relatives on Isabella's side. Her mother's aunt, the woman she had lived with, had vanished not long after Isabella's departure, and her father had never mentioned any other family, despite Isabella's tales of relatives in Tennessee.
Feeling the sun's warmth flooding her room, Aria determined it was time to face the day. She cast the cover aside, ventured out of bed, and headed for her closet. She selected her favorite well-worn jeans and a simple white tank top. The bathroom beckoned her next, where she took a shower, hoping the water could cleanse some of her sorrow. But as the cold water replaced the warm, her sadness remained, clinging stubbornly. She dried herself and was grateful that the bathroom mirror was fogged, sparing her the sight of her own eyes as she brushed her teeth. As much as she cherished those hazel eyes and their connection to her father, she was teetering on the edge. Today's goal was clear: to make it through the day without shedding a tear, a small triumph against the relentless ache in her chest.
She briefly contemplated preparing breakfast but settled for an apple, unsure if her stomach could handle more. Tears might surface later, and she didn't want to revisit her meal. She corrected herself aloud, whispering, "No, Aria, stay positive. Today, you won't cry!"
She tossed the apple core into the trash, retrieved her keys and bag from the counter, and headed for the door. It was nearing noon, and she should be at work. Her boss, Brian, had likely grown impatient with her recent absences. She hadn't shown up for her shifts, and she had been dodging his calls and messages.
A summer breeze greeted her as she stepped out of the house and onto the porch, caressing her hair like a warm touch. She tilted her face toward the sun, basking in its radiant warmth, then turned away to head to her truck, exhaling a soft, prolonged sigh.
