The morning sun barely peeked over the Abbott estate, casting long golden shadows across the windowsill where Claire Grace Newman sat, lost in thought and drowning in memories. In her trembling hands was a poem—one her father, Cole Howard, once read aloud to Victoria during one of their few peaceful moments. Now, with his death confirmed and his cremation looming, the words seemed heavier, soaked in grief and longing.

Claire’s dreams the night before had been unsettling. Cole had visited her—not as a ghost, but as the father she was only beginning to know. In her dream, they had been back at the Tac House, a place heavy with family memories. He was smiling, arms open, as if welcoming her into understanding rather than comfort. But when Claire awoke, the cold reality of Jordan’s manipulation returned to her like a blade to the heart. Her mourning felt fractured, uncertain. Could she even claim sorrow for someone who had been in her life for only a flicker of time?

Victoria, sensing her daughter’s turmoil, joined her quietly. Together they reflected on the impossible intersections of past and present. Victoria spoke of the quiet, heartbreaking service held years ago for a baby everyone believed had died. Now, the same baby—Claire—sat preparing to read that same poem at the funeral of the man who’d given her life. “I want to read this,” Claire whispered, and her mother simply nodded, her eyes glistening with tears.

Across the city, preparations for Cole Howard’s cremation were quietly underway. A representative from the funeral home had come and gone, leaving behind a cherrywood urn engraved with Cole’s initials—a vessel for a man who had once dreamed in verse and loved with quiet intensity. Victoria and Claire stood before it in the chapel, their hands lingering over the polished wood, reluctant to let go.

Nate Hastings arrived soon after, his presence warm, steady. The news of Cole’s death had reached him through hospital channels, and now he came to offer condolences. He sat beside Claire and listened to her wrestle with guilt—guilt for not saying goodbye, for not getting closure. “Then say it now,” he gently told her. “From your heart. He’ll hear you.”

Later that evening, Claire returned to Chancellor Gardens. Beneath the same tree where she once shared ice cream with Cole, she whispered into the evening breeze, “Come back to me in my dreams. Let me say goodbye this time.”

But as one heart tried to heal, another unraveled.

Mariah Copeland wandered the halls of her past like a woman haunted. When she arrived at Daniel Romalotti’s loft, she found Tessa there, smiling, teaching Daniel how to play guitar. For a moment, it was almost normal. But the silence between Mariah and Tessa was louder than any chord. Later, after Daniel left, Tessa sat beside her wife and asked the question she’d been too afraid to voice: “What happened on that work trip?”

Mariah didn’t answer. Not with words.

The memories clawed their way to the surface like buried bones. A hotel room. A desperate struggle. Her hands. An older man—his name now a blur—gasping for air beneath her grip. She remembered the suffocation. She remembered the silence after. And now, the guilt rotted inside her like poison.

Tessa, desperate to break the silence, reminded her of Arya, their daughter. “She asked for both mommies today,” she said softly. “She bumped her elbow and wanted both of us to kiss it better.”

But Mariah only shook her head. “It’s safer this way,” she murmured, trying to believe it herself.

“Then maybe this is goodbye,” Tessa replied, her voice breaking. “Maybe I can’t wait anymore.”

It wasn’t anger—it was heartbreak. Mariah turned away, tears threatening to spill, and said nothing. Tessa’s footsteps echoed as she left, unsure if she’d ever return.

Elsewhere in Genoa City, the political landscape was shifting as quietly as the wind.

Nick Newman and Phyllis Summers found themselves in a familiar clash of wills. Standing in the shadow of the Newman tower, Phyllis admitted she had spoken with Kane Ashby, maybe even considered joining his ranks. Nick, furious and betrayed, grabbed her arm gently but firmly. “This isn’t a game,” he said. “Kane isn’t just another mogul. He’s playing for blood, and you don’t know what you’re walking into.”

Phyllis, ever defiant, told Nick she didn’t need saving. “I know exactly what I’m doing,” she hissed.

“No,” Nick replied, his voice trembling, “you don’t. And if you keep this up, you’ll either help Kane destroy this family—or you’ll be destroyed right alongside him.”

But Phyllis wasn’t ready to choose. Not yet.

Back at the Grand Phoenix, she poured herself a glass of wine and watched the city lights flicker below. The Newman family was rallying behind Cole’s memory, behind each other. And she, as always, stood at the edge of the fire, uncertain whether she was protector—or arsonist.

Meanwhile, Adam Newman had quietly slipped in and out of Crimson Lights, speaking with Nikki and exchanging coded messages with Victor. Kane’s shadow was growing, and the Newmans were circling their wagons. But even Adam couldn’t shake the feeling that the next move wasn’t theirs to make.

A storm was coming.

And in the center of it all stood Claire, clutching a poem and whispering into the night. A daughter who had only just found her father. A daughter now forced to say goodbye again—this time, to ashes.

But in Genoa City, nothing stays buried forever.