While He Sleeps

The Weight of a Promise

Chapter 2: The Weight of a Promise

The wake was quiet—too quiet for a woman like Lucinda Velasquez, who once filled every room she entered with warmth and laughter. Now, her photo stood framed beside the white casket, surrounded by lilies and candles that flickered with fading light.

Amara sat in the front row, dressed in black, numb and motionless. Her hands were folded neatly on her lap, her eyes focused on the casket, but her thoughts scattered like dust in the air. She hadn’t slept. She hadn’t eaten. She had only wept until she could cry no more.

Then, amidst the murmur of sympathies and prayers, two figures entered the room.

“Chris?” Amara blinked, standing slowly.

Her eldest brother opened his arms. “Hey, sis.”

“Paul,” she whispered, turning to hug her second brother as well. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Of course we did,” Paul said softly. “We wouldn’t miss this.”

After a moment of silence between them, Chris placed a hand on her shoulder. “There’s something you need to know, Amara. About Mom’s last wish.”

She looked between them. “You both know?”

Chris nodded. “We’ve known for a while. She told us before her health got worse.”

“She asked me to marry someone named Caleb,” Amara said, voice barely audible. “But I don’t even know him.”

Chris exchanged a look with Paul, then took a seat beside her. “Let me tell you the story.”

Amara stayed quiet, letting the weight of his words press down on her.

“When Mom lived in Australia—before you were born—I was ten, Paul was five. We moved there for Dad’s work. That’s where Mom reconnected with her childhood best friend, Elena. They were closer than sisters. Always together, always planning. And one night, they joked about becoming in-laws. But it didn’t stay a joke for long.”

Chris leaned forward, voice low.

“Elena had a son—Caleb. Mom already had us. So they both decided to try again. They said, ‘Let’s give it one more shot. You have a daughter, and I’ll have a son. They’ll grow up and get married.'”

Amara’s breath caught in her throat.

“And then you came along,” Chris said, smiling faintly. “Mom was thrilled. Elena got pregnant around the same time. They thought their dream was becoming real. But…”

Paul picked up the thread. “Elena lost the baby. A miscarriage. It broke her.”

Chris nodded. “She was never the same. To fill the void, she adopted a daughter. Mom supported her through it, but shortly after, we had to move to Los Angeles. Dad had a new job, and you were born there.”

“Their friendship slowly faded,” Paul added. “Distance and life happened. But Mom never forgot the promise.”

Amara stared ahead, the casket now even heavier in her vision.

Later that evening, the wake was thinning out. Mourners trickled away. Amara sat alone, her brothers stepping outside to take a call.

That’s when Elena Ramos appeared.

She looked regal despite the grief, her black dress pressed and her silver hair pinned neatly. Her eyes shimmered with unspoken sadness.

“Amara,” she said softly.

Amara stood. “Mrs. Ramos…”

Elena took her hands. “Your mother was my soul sister. We dreamed about the future together… about you and Caleb. I know it sounds sudden, and perhaps unfair, but she wanted this so badly. And I believe Caleb would too.”

“I already promised her,” Amara said, her voice steadier than she felt. “At the hospital. I said I would.”

Elena’s eyes filled with tears. “Then let us fulfill her last wish.”

At the far end of the wake, Amara noticed movement—Rafael.

He was standing quietly near the doorway, watching. When their eyes met, he didn’t look away.

But she did.

The next day was the funeral.

Rain fell in a slow, steady rhythm. Umbrellas bloomed like dark flowers over the sea of mourners. Lucinda was laid to rest beneath a pale marble headstone. Amara didn’t cry again. She had no more tears left.

After the burial, back at the house, the atmosphere was thick with mourning. Amara was in the kitchen when her college best friend, Ysabel Cruz, walked in.

“Amara,” she whispered, pulling her into a long, tight hug. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you for coming,” Amara said, her voice hollow.

“I’ll always come for you.”

They sat on the couch in silence for a while.

Then the front door creaked open again.

Rafael stepped inside.

Amara froze. He wasn’t alone.

He was talking with Ysabel. Laughing softly.

She turned her head slowly, watching them interact. There was a familiarity in the way he looked at Ysabel. A softness Amara had never seen directed at herself.

And in that moment, she knew.

It was Ysabel.

The girl he liked.

That night, Amara curled up in her room. Her thoughts wouldn’t let her rest.

At work the next morning, Trixie noticed the dark circles beneath her friend’s eyes.

“You look like you barely survived a war,” she said gently.

“It feels like I didn’t,” Amara murmured.

“Tell me what happened.”

Amara hesitated, then whispered, “Rafael… he likes Ysabel. I saw it. The way he looked at her.”

Trixie blinked. “Your Ysabel? From college?”

Amara nodded. “All this time… I thought I just needed to wait. That maybe he’d look my way. But he never did. Not once.”

Trixie sighed and pulled her into a side hug. “I’m sorry. That’s cruel.”

“I feel stupid.”

“You’re not. You just… loved someone who didn’t love you back.”

Amara closed her eyes.

A few days later, Chris and Paul packed their bags again.

They stood by the front door, hugging her tightly.

“You’ll be okay?” Paul asked.

“I’ll try,” she said.

Chris kissed her forehead. “You’re stronger than you know.”

Then they were gone.

And she was alone.

Back in her bedroom, Amara sat on the edge of the bed. The walls were too quiet. Her mother’s perfume still clung to the pillowcases. The sound of her voice still echoed in memory.

Amara looked toward the window.

But she didn’t move the curtain.

She no longer wanted to see Rafael.

Not after everything.

Not now.

Not ever.