Page 126 of Whisper of Nightmares

The sickroom returns around them, only this time Kelda, Otho, and the old Dagfinn are gone.

Euphemia checks Dagfinn with a worried glance.

He’s still standing by some small miracle. But he looks as though he might crumble at any moment, as though the memories are still beating him from all sides, the weight of the revelations devastating.

When Dagfinn finally talks, his voice is so raspy it sounds as though he is speaking through fire. “I remember. I remember it all.”

Slowly, Euphemia approaches, a heaviness in her heart drawing her closer.

She’d known they had both lost their fathers, but she hadn’t realized until now how similar their grief was.

Not identical.

No one can share the same pain.

But something similar.

Something that binds them.

Something they can both understand.

“Our entire household fell ill that autumn,” Dagfinn says, though Euphemia gets the sense he’s telling himself more than her, the memory actively returning to him. “Spiking fevers. Muscle pains and spasms. My mother and I recovered quickly though, so we thought at first it was a simple cold.”

Dagfinn’s gaze wanders to the bed.

“My father was not so lucky. He became so feverish, he would shake uncontrollably. Most days, he hardly ate. When he did, he couldn’t keep anything down. And just kept getting worse. His fingers and toes started to blacken. And all I wanted to do was to help.”

Dagfinn drags a hand through the long, auburn hair that has returned to him. He sighs as if he still can’t believe the sensation is real. Both grateful and regretful.

A shuddering breath escapes him as his gaze falls to the bedside table and an empty vial knocked onto on its side. “Nothing I tried worked. And my father grew weaker and weaker, until he finally left us.”

Euphemia shifts closer until she can place a hand on his shoulder. “He is lucky he had someone like you trying everything you could to help him. You know that, don’t you?”

A slow nod.

Suddenly, a gauzy shimmer ripples over the bed.

It’s nearly translucent at first, but slowly the haze thickens until a body takes shape.

Dagfinn’s father reappears before them much like Euphemia’s had.

No longer sick nor weary.

Dagfinn rushes to the side of the bed as his father sits upright. He reaches for his father’s hand, and Euphemia’s heart squeezes at the sight. She knows the pain that comes next. Knows what it’s like to have someone you love standing impossibly close and still being unreachable.

But their hands connect.

Dagfinn kneels at his father’s bed and Otho gazes at him with fondness and confusion.

“My boy, what are you doing here?”

Euphemia staggers away until her back hits the wall.

She wants Dagfinn to have this. He deserves it. One more conversation. One more chance to say goodbye.

But it’s not fair.

She was robbed of this.