There's nothing. No movement, no sound.
This has to be a dream.
That's the only explanation. Some horrible, twisted dream my brain has conjured up after another bad night.
“Dad.” The word slips out again, desperate this time.
I move closer to the bed, my chest tightening with every step and my legs unsteady.
“Dad.”
It's the only thing my mind seems capable of saying now.
Dad.
Dad.
Dad.
I stand at the side of his bed, looking down at him. The most amazing man who raised me and used to carry me on his shoulders everywhere, laughing too loudly at his terrible jokes.
He looks fragile.
Like the life that used to fill him has been quietly erased.
My hand trembles as I reach out and wrap my fingers around his.
His skin feels thin to the touch. And cold.
So cold.
The chill crawls straight into my bones.
That's not right. If he's cold… and he isn't breathing… if he isn't answering me—
“Daddy,” I whisper, the word breaking apart as it leaves me.
My vision blurs completely as I fumble for his heartbeat. My fingers shake uncontrollably; I can’t keep them still as I press them to his wrist, searching for that familiar rhythm that has always been there: steady, reassuring, alive.
But there's nothing.
A cold dread creeps up my spine, slow and suffocating. I move my hand to his chest, pressing harder this time, willing—begging—for that faint thud of his heart beneath my palm.
Please.
Please.
But the silence beneath my hand is absolute.
No warmth.
No movement.
No life.
The realisation crashes into me like a freight train.
He's really gone.
