Welcome back to Holding On.
Last time, the day found a rare kind of balance.
Rachel and David shared coffee in the hospice lounge — a small pause that became its own language — while Ralph and Emma traded laughter and stories, the room alive again with echoes of Lily’s voice. For a moment, everyone remembered how to breathe together.
Now the light has thinned, and the house and the hospice have slipped into their evening quiet.
Rachel and Emma have gone home, their warmth still lingering in the air. David stays behind, keeping vigil as Ralph drifts between waking and sleep. Memory moves through the room in soft pulses — a breath, a whisper, a name spoken into silence.
It’s a chapter about holding space — about the love that asks for nothing but presence, and the grace of staying when there’s nothing left to say.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The room held a stillness too fragile to break.
Earlier, Emma’s laughter and Rachel’s soft questions had warmed the space; now only the lamp’s uneven glow remained, shadows pooling in the corners, settled like breath.
David sat beside Ralph, shifting in the chair as though comfort had to be negotiated.
He stretched his legs, then drew them in; the ache crept into his shoulders.
He ignored it. Stayed still.
His eyes stayed fixed on Ralph—the faint rise and fall of his chest, the papery skin of his hands resting on the blanket.
He rubbed his palms together, the dry rasp cutting through the quiet for a moment before fading.
His phone buzzed once on the table—Rachel, letting him know they’d made it home—but he didn’t reach for it.
He let it fade.
Ralph’s head tilted slightly, his breathing shallow but steady.
Even in sleep he seemed worn thin, the outline of the man David remembered.
Earlier he had brushed off Rachel’s concern with a flick of his hand, insisting he was fine.
Now even that small defiance had drained away.
David leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
Emma’s bright eyes and delighted giggle came back to him unbidden, sudden and bright.
She’d hung on every word of his story—the one about Mum and the red bike.
He’d told it for her, to give her something to hold on to.
Now it clung to him instead.
Would she remember it years from now?
Would Rachel?
Would Ralph still hold any of it—the dinners, the stories, the quiet act of someone simply staying?
Would any of it be enough?
The chair creaked softly.
The air refused to move.
On the bedside table sat the enamel cup Rachel had left that morning, a faint ring of tea cooling at its base.
David’s gaze caught on it, that small trace of warmth now gone.
Ralph stirred, his hand twitching against the blanket.
David straightened, pulse quickening.
“Dad?” he asked quietly.
No answer.
Ralph’s hand stilled, his breathing settling into its shallow rhythm.
The quiet closed around them again.
Ralph stirred once more, his head shifting on the pillow.
His breathing hitched, uneven, eyelids fluttering open.
His gaze drifted across the room, unfocused, before finding the empty chair near the window.
His brow furrowed; a dry whisper escaped.
“Where is she?”
David froze. The question caught in him.
He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees.
“Dad, it’s me—David,” he said gently. “You’ve been resting.”
But Ralph’s eyes kept searching the corners, as if someone stood just beyond reach.
“She said she’d be here,” he murmured. “She promised.”
David rose, moving to the bedside.
“Dad, let me help you get comfortable. Maybe you had a dream.”
“No.” The word cut the air. “She was here. I know she was. Where is she?”
David hesitated.
He thought of his mother—the way she’d steady a teacup before speaking, as if balance itself were an answer.
“Mum’s not here right now,” he said softly. “It’s just us.”
The words dissolved before they reached Ralph.
His hands twisted in the blanket.
“Where is she? Why isn’t she here?”
Each question rose higher, desperation fraying the silence.
“Dad,” David said, crouching so their eyes met. “You’re tired. Let me help you lie back.”
Ralph’s hand shot out, gripping his arm with sudden strength.
“Don’t lie to me,” he rasped. “Tell me where she is.”
The grip—paper-thin skin, fierce pressure—held him there.
“Dad,” he murmured, steadying his breath. “Just breathe with me.”
Slowly the fingers loosened; confusion dulled to fatigue.
Ralph’s head sank into the pillow.
For a moment the only sound was the radiator’s hiss and a drip in the hall sink.
David stayed close, one hand resting on the mattress.
Ralph’s next breath caught.
His eyes flickered open again, glassy but aware.
“She’s not here,” David whispered. “Mum passed away. A few days ago.”
Ralph blinked once. His lips moved. “No.”
The second “no” barely reached air; his head bowed as if the word itself were heavy.
“I know, Dad,” David said, voice frayed. “I know.”
Ralph’s shoulders trembled, then eased.
His fingers twitched once and fell still.
The breath he drew next was shallow, tentative—then another, rough but present.
He exhaled, the sound thin yet steady.
David let out the breath he’d been holding and kept his hand on the blanket—warm, alive.
“She believed in you,” Ralph murmured, the words faint but deliberate.
David froze. A swallow caught in his throat; the sound of it felt loud in the small room.
The sentence hung between them, taut in the air.
“I know,” he said at last, unsure if Ralph heard.
The old man’s eyes had already closed again, his breathing shallow but sure.
The lamp hummed. Rain began against the window—soft, steady, ordinary.
The light pooled on the enamel cup, the ring of tea glinting faintly, the same blue as Emma’s sketchbook cover.
David stayed where he was, listening to the rhythm build.
He didn’t speak again.
He didn’t move.
Outside, the night held.
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