Published in Gemini Magazine - "Letting Go" - Short Story

 Published in Gemini Magazine - "Letting Go"

I'm honored to share that my short story "Letting Go" has been published in Gemini Magazine and received an Honorable Mention in their 2025 Short Story Contest.

This story came after the sudden loss of my father. In those raw months of grief, I found myself writing about Emma—a woman who couldn't scatter her father's ashes, frozen in loss, until an unexpected moment of human connection began to thaw something inside her.

Though I primarily write fantasy, this piece of literary fiction emerged from a deeply personal place. Writing it didn't make the grief easier, but it gave it shape.

You can read the story at https://gemini-magazine.com/devine-letting-go/

Here is the full story that is published at Gemini Magazine

Letting Go

By: JD Devine

    The rain fell against Emma’s kitchen window, droplets racing down the glass like tears she couldn’t shed anymore. Grief so deep, she feared drowning in it.

    Three months after her father’s funeral, the wooden box of ashes sat untouched on her mantle. She’d promised him the lake during those final hospital days—their lake where he’d taught her to fish. “Take me back to where we were happiest, Emmy Loo.” The thought of letting him go made her chest constrict.

    Emma pressed her palm against the cold window. Her neighbor’s floodlights illuminated the storm, turning water into silver daggers that stabbed her with memories—Dad laughing as they ran through summer rain, his voice a rumble of thunder she’d never hear again.

    Her phone buzzed. A text from her sister: Just checking in. Call me. xoxo

    Emma placed the phone face down on the counter. She loved Anna but couldn’t endure another conversation filled with careful pauses and gentle suggestions about “moving forward,” as if grief could only move in one direction. Anna had boxed up Dad’s clothes just two weeks after the funeral and had sorted his papers with quiet efficiency. Emma had only been able to take his lucky lure from the tackle box; the rest of his fishing gear remained untouched in the garage. “He’d want us to keep going,” Anna would say, her practicality both admirable and frustrating. Their different grieving styles had created a distance that made even texts feel burdensome.

    The sink faucet dripped—plink, plink, plink—Dad would have fixed it for her immediately. He fixed everything before cancer hollowed him out, before his carpenter hands grew too weak to hold a wrench.

    Emma needed air. The house walls seemed to press in on her, each drip of the faucet another reminder of what she’d lost. As Emma stepped onto her porch, a deafening crack split the night. The old maple had broken, and a massive branch blocked her driveway.

    She noticed movement across the yard—her elderly neighbor’s porch light had flicked on. Mr. Davis, a fixture on the street she’d exchanged nothing but waves with for five years, had emerged to check on the noise.

    “Need help?” His voice startled her even though she’d seen him coming. He stood at the edge of her property now, the rain plastering his thin white hair to his scalp, and his yellow raincoat gleamed.

    “I’m fine,” she called automatically, hugging her arms against the cold. But he stepped closer, squinting through the rain.

    “That branch won’t move on its own,” he observed, nodding toward the driveway.

    Emma wanted to say she had nowhere to go, but found herself nodding. Soon, they worked side by side, his weathered hands gripping each branch with surprising strength, her muscles aching with purpose for the first time in months.

    “My wife planted this maple forty years ago,” he said. “Helen always said trees outlive us to keep our stories standing; I couldn’t bring myself to cut it down.”

    Emma blinked, wiping rain from her eyes. “Your wife? I thought you lived alone.”

    “Seven years now.” His eyes remained on the fallen branch. “Found her in the garden one morning, trowel still in hand.” He traced a finger along the tree’s growth rings. “Funny how we can measure our lives in circles like these—the joyful moments and the simple years. Helen and I spent forty years adding rings to our story. He glanced at Emma. “Your father was a builder too, wasn’t he? He created things meant to last.”

    The rain began to soften, its fury subsiding. A deep rumble of thunder echoed in the distance. Emma studied Mr. Davis’s face as he spoke of his wife without his voice breaking.

    “How did you—”

    “Handle it?” Mr. Davis finished. “Poorly, at first. Then, day by day. Some days are better than others.”

    Emma found herself inviting him in for coffee. His raincoat dripping onto the welcome mat—the one her father had given her when she bought her first house, now faded from sun and weather.

    In her kitchen, Mr. Davis’s hands wrapped around the mug she offered. His wedding band caught the light—still there after seven years. Emma’s fingers found the fishing lure keychain in her pocket—her father’s lucky Rapala Minnow that had caught their biggest bass. She’d removed it from his tackle box the day after the funeral, unable to let it sit unused. Its once-sharp hook was dulled but capable of catching memories with every touch.

    “Helen’s ashes are scattered in our vegetable garden,” he said as if reading her thoughts. “Took me three years to do it. She would’ve been furious with me for waiting so long.”

    Emma glanced toward the living room, where her father’s ashes waited, a silent weight heavier than their wooden box. A small laugh escaped her—the sound so strange after so long in grief. “Dad would be annoyed with me, too,” she admitted. He always said, “Fish won’t catch themselves, Emmy Loo.”

    Mr. Davis nodded, understanding in his eyes. “The tomatoes grew so great that year. I like to think she had something to do with it.”

    Outside, the rain had stopped. Water dripped from the gutters while stars peeked through dissipating clouds.

    For the first time in months, she thought about the lake—how the water would feel slipping through her fingers, carrying her father away and keeping him close all at once. Not today or tomorrow, but soon.

    Mr. Davis set his empty mug in the sink and twisted the faucet cap, stopping the dripping immediately. “If you need help with anything,” he offered, “I’m just across the fence.”

    Emma nodded, and he left. She felt something inside her shift, like ice starting to thaw. Outside, water gathered in small pools, reflecting fragments of stars. She toyed with the fishing lure in her pocket, then picked up her phone and called her sister.

https://jddevine.com/