When they finish, the woman briefly rests her palm on his forearm.
“You just focus on resting now,” she says gently.
He looks at her, then at me. Then at Will, who has not moved from his position near the door, a silent line of protection that feels as natural as breathing.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Will says, as if he understands the question without needing words.
Dad exhales—it sounds like relief.
He gestures faintly toward the hallway, polite even now, and the palliative care workers understand. They pack up withthe same unhurried rhythm they arrived with, the soft zip of equipment cases sounding too loud in the room’s hush.
“Call if you need us,” the man says, and Will walks them out.
The front door closes with a muted click that seems to echo all the way back down the years of this house. When Will returns, he pauses just inside the room, leaning his shoulder lightly against the wall like he’s securing himself there. Not stepping into something that belongs to Dad and me alone, but close enough that I feel the steadiness of him like another heartbeat in the space.
The light in the room is warm. Late afternoon spilling through the curtains in soft gold bands that dust the edges of everything, turning the air thick and slow.
It is just the three of us now.
I shift closer on the mattress, the springs sighing under the movement. Dad’s hand is lighter than it used to be. The bones are more pronounced beneath my fingers. I thread mine through his anyway, fitting them together like I’ve done since I was small, and he let me hold on when thunderstorms rolled in.
“Do you remember that bakery on Carson?” I ask, my voice softer than I intend. “The one that used to do the lemon tarts with the ridiculous amount of sugar on top?”
His eyelids flutter. A slow blink.Yes.
“I found a place like that,” I tell him. “On the east side. Big windows, brick walls. It gets this light in the afternoons that makes everything look like it’s already part of a memory.”
His mouth moves. There is no sound, just effort.
“It’s not too far,” I add quickly. “You could come sit at the counter. Pretend you’re inspecting the structural integrity of my display cases.”
The corner of his mouth lifts… barely. It is enough to make my throat close, but I keep talking because stopping feels like giving something up.
“I’m going to call it something simple. Nothing pretentious. Just… good bread. Good coffee. The kind of place you don’t have to dress up for.”
His eyes move to the window, then back to me. There’s a question there, a lifetime of them.
“Yes,” I answer softly. “I’ll be okay.”
Behind me, Will shifts his weight, the faint creak of leather the only reminder he’s there at all. I don’t turn, I don’t need to, because his presence sits in the room like a quiet promise.
Dad squeezes my hand.
It’s weak.
It’s everything.
The machines that the home nurse team set up hum. A clock ticks somewhere down the hall. Floorboards creak now and then beneath the weight of the old house, every sound sharper tonight somehow. The whole place feels heavy with memories and the reality that time is starting to run thinner around us.
I lean my forehead gently against the back of his hand.
And I keep talking.
Dad’s focus drifts. It isn’t sudden, just a slow shift of attention, like something inside him has decided to look elsewhere for a moment. His gaze slides past me and settles on Will.
Will straightens slightly where he stands by the door, as if he feels the weight of it land on him before he fully understands why. He doesn’t move closer or speak. He meets my father’s eyes and holds them.
There is a pause that feels longer than time allows.
