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"Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart."
– Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore
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Molly sat in an old, soft armchair by the kitchen window at the Burrow. All around her was silence, broken only by the gentle clink of a teacup on the table and the birdsong outside. The sun was breaking through the lace curtains, casting warm streaks of light on the wooden floor. This place—the kitchen—had always been the heart of the house. It was where family life unfolded most vividly, filled with warmth and memories. Now, however, it seemed... empty.
Molly's knitting lay on her lap, with thin yarn wrapped around her fingers. Her hands, once so skilled, now seemed slow. She lowered her gaze to the uneven knitting—the thread was tangled and the stitches were in disarray. Molly let out a heavy sigh, set the knitting aside, and rubbed her weary eyes.
She gazed out the window, turning away from the sight of her failed handiwork. The garden, once vibrant and carefully tended, now lay untamed. It stood as a quiet reminder of the steady, unyielding march of time. The grass was no longer so evenly trimmed, and the flowers seemed to grow in chaos. A thought popped into Molly's head: Was it old age? Or just... exhaustion?
Soft footsteps broke through her thoughts. Ginny entered the kitchen, smiling, with a basket full of freshly picked apples.
"Good morning, Mom!" - She said cheerfully, placing the basket on the table. "I found these apples in the orchard; they're still pretty good."
Molly glanced at her daughter with gratitude. Yet, in her eyes, a quiet melancholy lingered, soft and unspoken.
"Good morning, dear." - She replied, trying to hide the fatigue in her voice. "Where did I... where did I put those knitting needles? I think... maybe on the table?"
Ginny picked up her knitting from the chair next to her with a smile.
"Here they are, Mom. Don't worry, everyone forgets things sometimes," she said lightly, though Molly could sense the concern hidden in her tone.
Molly looked at her hands, which seemed so foreign to her now.
"Ah, Ginny... sometimes I feel like I'm missing something." - She spoke in a soft voice, her mind drifting to days long past. She remembered the laughter of children echoing through the house. Mornings at the kitchen table were warm, filled with joy and togetherness.
"It's like those days are no longer mine."
After a moment, she glanced at her daughter. Her hand trembled, but warmth filled her heart.
"And yet... I have you with me. That's enough for me."
Ginny approached her mother and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. Her gaze, though full of warmth, betrayed concern.
"Mom, we all get lost sometimes, but what we have now is important," she said softly. "We are here for you."
Molly smiled slightly, though tears glistened in her eyes.
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Molly's bedroom was full of warmth and memories hiding in every corner. On the walls hung old photographs—children at different stages of life, of her wedding to Arthur, of smiles full of hope and joy. Cookbooks stood on a shelf, their spines faded from years of use. Hand-embroidered pillows—a gift from Ginny—added a cozy touch to the interior.
Molly lay in bed; her figure seemed finer, almost too delicate. Her face bore the marks of fatigue, and her hands, which once sewed and cooked with such skill, rested motionless on the quilt. Despite her weakness, her eyes—still sharp and full of love—wandered over the loved ones gathered in the room.
Arthur sat closest to her, holding her hand. In his gaze, one could see a silent prayer that Molly would recover. Ginny leaned over her mother, handing her a cup of tea. Her gesture was gentle as if she was afraid that the slightest movement might cause pain. George sat down in a chair against the wall. He tried to look cheerful but avoided eye contact with his mother. The other children and grandchildren moved around the room—helping, speaking softly, and creating a quiet sense of support.
For a moment, everyone remained in silence, as if the collective need for silence was a way to ease the tension. Molly, looking at each in turn, kept her gaze on George. Her eyes shimmered with uncertainty before she spoke a single name:
"Fred…"
Time seemed to stand still. The air in the room thickened, and the family's breaths paused as if they were all afraid to say anything. Arthur squeezed Molly's hand lightly, easing the tension that had settled in the moment.
"Molly, honey, we are all here. You have time; rest." - He whispered, his voice full of peace, yet filled with love.
Molly closed her eyes for a moment as if these words gave her solace, but she immediately looked again at everyone gathered.
"You have always been by my side... But it is I who should be by your side. Always, for you, my children..." - Her voice trembled, and her words were full of concern and deep melancholy. In her mind, she felt the weight of the years overwhelm her body, but at the same time, she remembered the moments when her children ran to her for help, and their tiny arms embraced her with infinite trust.
"Despite everything... I am fortunate to have you all," she said.
George twitched, as if he wanted to say something, but hesitated. Finally, he spoke up, trying to add a little lightness to the heavy atmosphere:
"Mom, please, we're doing better than the Ministry of Magic!" - he said with a chuckle, trying to sound lighthearted. Yet his tone betrayed the tension he could not conceal.
Molly smiled weakly, "You're always joking, Fred..." she whispered, before closing her eyes as if to relax for a moment.
The words "Fred..." echoed in George's head, as if they had struck the most delicate strings of his heart. For a brief moment, he closed his eyes, and his hand involuntarily rose to the collar of his shirt, where he began to play with its edge, seeking a moment of concentration. His face, usually full of a subtle smile and unquenchable energy, now expressed something hard to describe—a mixture of pain, love, and determination to remain calm.
The room was cloaked in a silence that seemed to stretch into infinity. Arthur put his hand on his son's shoulder without saying a word. The gesture was enough—it was not pushy, but quiet and supportive, as if to remind George that he did not have to be alone at this moment.
Finally, George opened his eyes and looked at his mother. Her gaze was hazy, and her facial features showed not only weakness but also relief, as if memories had come to life for a split second. George took a deep breath as if trying to control a trembling voice that would not listen to him.
"Mom, it's me. George." - he said softly, almost in a whisper. His tone revealed everything—tenderness, concern, and, above all, the pain he tried to hide from the whole family.
Molly furrowed her eyebrows slightly as if his words had not quite reached her. Her eyes turned to George again, and a barely perceptible smile appeared on her face—sad, but full of love.
"Fred..."—she repeated quietly, with such warmth that it seemed as if she had forgotten the present."My boy..."
Molly's thoughts drifted back to the days when Fred was still a boy. Images of his scampering footsteps on the kitchen floor, his laughter filling every corner of the house, came alive in her memory. She remembered how one spring day Fred ran through the garden with a bouquet of wildflowers in his hands, proud as a peacock as he handed them to her.
But that memory faded, yielding to another—the day Arthur brought the news that changed everything. Fred, their beloved son, had been taken too soon. The world seemed to stop then, and the silence that enveloped the house was like an echo of their loss.
Molly took a deep breath, trying to hold back tears. She knew that the pain she felt would never completely go away, but... she looked at her family, and a sense of relief entered her heart—she still had her family to lift her spirits.
"I'm sorry, darling..." - She whispered, barely managing to lift her gaze to George.
George held his breath, looking at his mother. He leaned over, reached for her hand, and gently embraced her as if to convey at least a little of his strength. He smiled slightly, though tears burned him from the inside. He took her hand in his and, almost instinctively, said with a playful glint in his eye:
"Just kidding... I'm Fred. Seriously, woman, you call yourself our mother?"
A gentle smile appeared on Molly's face, and her weary eyes briefly regained their old sparkle. George looked away, allowing a solitary tear to trace its way down his cheek.
Fred had been gone for a long time. Yet, for a brief moment, he seemed to return. He was there in his mother's smile, in his brother's words, in a love that would never fade.
"Oh, George... always with your jokes." - Molly said, and a warmth echoed in her voice that made her face regain its former gentleness for a moment.
George smiled wider, though deep inside he felt the weight of the memories. He knew that his words would not fix reality, but if he could offer his mother even a brief moment of relief, it was worth it. The family looked at him with appreciation in their eyes. His humor wasn't just his shield—it lifted their spirits too.
Molly looked at George. He was so similar to Fred—he had the same twinkle in his eye, the same warmth in his voice as he sought to ease the tension. Sometimes, looking at George, she had the feeling that Fred was still with them—in his brother's gestures and words. But she also knew how the weight of these comparisons must have weighed on George. She feared that, too often, she sought Fred's shadow in him, rather than seeing his own unique light.
Arthur's whisper brought Molly gently back from her musings. She opened her eyes, returning to the present moment, surrounded by the love of her family. She met George's gaze, his eyes filled with quiet concern. In that moment, she saw something that comforted her. Despite the loss, their bond had endured, unbroken and strong.
At that moment, Fred's spirit felt present. It wasn't in their sorrow, but in their love and shared memories that kept them close.
George breathed deeply and muttered to himself in an almost inaudible whisper.
"Fred... if you were here, you'd likely be the one laughing the loudest at all this."
His words, though quiet, carried immense weight. His smile faltered, touched with sorrow. Yet, no smile could mask the longing that lingered in his voice, raw and unspoken.
There was a quiet harmony in the room. The family sat quietly together. Ginny nestled in the corner, holding a cup of tea. Arthur stayed by the bed, steadfast. The children and grandchildren lingered nearby, each savoring the warmth of being together. No one spoke much. Words were superfluous, as their presence said it all.
Molly, resting on the pillows, closed her eyes. Her face, which all day had revealed signs of fatigue and pain, now relaxed into a gentle smile. That smile carried echoes of the old days. It reminded them of a time when Molly radiated energy and warmth, her presence a sanctuary for them all.
Ginny looked at those gathered and broke the silence:
"Maybe we should let Mom rest. We've been here all day." - she said, her calm tone an attempt to restore a sense of normalcy after the intense emotions that had surged.
Molly opened her eyes slightly and looked at her children. Her voice, barely audible, filled the room with a soft, joyful resonance:
"No, stay. It's so good... to have you all here..." Her words were soft, barely louder than a whisper. Behind them lingered a faint trace of loneliness, like a shadow from the past.
Molly felt a quiet gratitude. She cherished her loved ones. Their love endured, even as time passed. She had lost so much, but she still held onto so much more.
Her words warmed everyone's hearts. Arthur, feeling a surge of tenderness, pressed her hand to his lips in a silent gesture of love and gratitude. A sense of understanding and calm settled in his gaze.
The curtains moved gently with the spring breeze. Sunlight streamed in, filling the room with a soft, golden warmth. This image—a family united by love, full of memories and hope—lingered in everyone's hearts. It was a moment that reminded us that family ties are eternal.
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Molly drifted into a deep sleep. In her dreams, she stood in a kitchen. It felt familiar, yet different. The past lingered in its corners, mingling with the promise of something new.
The walls glowed with warm colors. The scent of freshly baked cookies lingered in the air. Sunlight streamed in, filling the room with a soft, golden light. Fred sat at the table, smiling. Mischief sparkled in his eyes. He looked just as Molly remembered—full of energy and life.
"Well, finally, Mom! I thought I was going to have to send a Patronus to get you here." He chuckled lightly, raising his tea mug in a mock toast.
Molly stood motionless, shocked yet delighted.
"Fred... you here..." - Her voice broke for a moment.
Fred stood up and walked over to her, spreading his arms.
"Of course, I'm here! Who else would make sure you don't forget to bake your renowned cakes? After all, that's my primary job—official taste tester!
Molly burst out laughing, though tears streamed into her eyes. "Oh, Fred..."
Fred winked at her. "I hope George didn't botch my lines. He's always been better at punchlines, but let's be honest—he can't rival my charm."
Molly shook her head, smiling. "No, Fred, George is doing fine. But you... you're irreplaceable.
Fred looked at her gently, although the mischievous glint in his eye did not disappear.
"I know, Mom. But remember—I never really left. I'm in your memories, in your laughter, in the chaos that George brings... and, of course, in every slightly mishap-filled kitchen adventure."
As she began to awaken from this dream, she could still hear his soft words:
"Don't worry about me, Mom. You have each other—and that's the greatest magic we have."
Molly opened her eyes in her bed, and her heart felt lighter. Fred was no longer there, yet his presence endured—in love, in family ties, and in memories that would never fade.