Welcome back to Holding On.
Last time, Rachel and Emma climbed into the attic and opened the boxes Lily had left behind — photos, blankets, the faint scent of lavender and dust. Each object carried a pulse of memory, and when Emma brought them to the hospice, Ralph’s voice seemed to rise again through story and laughter.
Now, the house has grown still. Ralph drifts between waking and sleep, his breath setting the pace of the day. Rachel and David step into the corridor for coffee — a small reprieve that becomes something more: an old rhythm rediscovered, a weight shared. And when a forgotten song finds its way back to them, the past opens in unexpected light.
It’s a chapter about presence — the kind that doesn’t need words, the kind that hums quietly beneath everything we love, and everything we’re learning to let go of.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ralph had drifted off, his head sinking into the pillow.
Rachel adjusted the blanket, smoothing it flat. Her hands lingered—a small insistence on order when everything else was slipping away.
His breathing filled the room.
Emma glanced between her mother and grandfather, her sketchbook clutched to her chest.
“Is Grandad okay?”
Rachel brushed her hair back and smiled, thinly.
“He’s just resting. He needs it after all those stories.”
Emma nodded, reassured. “I’m going to show the nurses my drawings!”
“Don’t bother them for too long,” Rachel said, her voice gentler now.
Emma darted out, footsteps light against the polished floor. When the door closed, the room settled again—breath, hum, silence.
Rachel exhaled. “Coffee?”
David smiled faintly. “Free coffee? I’d be a fool to say no.”
“Then come on,” she said, slinging her bag. “Before Dad wakes up and tells the seagull story again.”
The hospice lounge was almost empty, the vending machines breathing quietly beside the hiss of the coffee pot.
Rachel poured two cups, the scent sharp and bitter, cutting through the antiseptic air. Steam curled like slow breath.
David leaned against the counter, breaking a biscuit in half.
“Still the worst coffee in Derbyshire.”
Rachel snorted. “You’ve just gone soft with your fancy cafés.”
“Maybe.” He smiled. “Still better than Mum’s chicory phase.”
Rachel laughed, small but real. “She called it robust. I called it undrinkable.”
Laughter faded; the machine hummed.
“You’ve been carrying this,” David said quietly. “All of it.”
Rachel stirred her coffee, watching the swirl settle. “Someone had to.”
“But it doesn’t have to be only you.”
She didn’t answer, only leaned against the counter beside him. The cup was hot against her palms.
“I don’t even know how to stop.”
“Then let me hold it with you,” he said. “Even if I get it wrong.”
Rachel’s thumb brushed the rim of her cup. A tremor passed through her shoulders before she looked at him.
“You don’t get to screw this up.”
“I won’t.”
The coffee machine clicked off. The quiet felt like breath drawn in.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
David lifted his cup in a half-toast. “Anytime.”
When they returned, Ralph was awake. His eyes were bright again, though fatigue shadowed the edges.
Emma perched on the bed, sketchbook open across her knees.
“…and then I drew the seagulls stealing your chips, like a comic!”
Ralph chuckled, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. “Perfect likeness. I look just as annoyed as I was.”
Rachel smiled, setting her cup down. The steam had faded; a thin film clung to the surface.
“Emma, give Grandad a little space.”
“I’m fine,” Ralph said. “Let her stay.”
“Dad—”
“Rach.” His voice was soft but steady. “I don’t have time to waste sitting quietly while life’s going on around me.”
David leaned in the doorway, smiling. “You’ve still got that stubborn streak.”
“Your mother called it living,” Ralph said. “She never let me sit still long enough to rust.”
Rachel looked down, thumb tracing the paper seam of her cup. “Just promise you’ll rest later.”
“Deal.” He reached for her hand. His grip was light, but it steadied her.
“For now, this is the good part.”
Emma’s pencil paused. “You’re happy when we’re all here, aren’t you?”
Ralph nodded. “Happiest man alive.”
Emma’s grin returned. “Then I’ll stay right here.”
Rachel hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. But tell me when you need a break.”
“Fair trade.”
The room eased into rhythm—the scratch of Emma’s pencil, the radiator’s hiss, the steady breathing that filled the spaces between.
Outside, faint and distant, a gull cried.
The hospice had fallen still again.
David sat by the bed, phone in hand, the light low.
Ralph slept, one hand near Lily’s letter on the table.
Rachel and Emma had gone to speak with a nurse before picking up Liam. Without them, the room felt too wide.
David rubbed the back of his neck. Emma’s sketches. Ralph’s stories. The way joy and exhaustion kept trading places.
Then another story surfaced—one his mother used to tell, laughing.
The Barry White concert.
He opened his phone and typed: Barry White Royal Albert Hall 1975.
A grainy video appeared. You’re My First, My Last, My Everything.
The sound filled the small room, warm and velvety.
The camera swept the crowd, then paused.
There they were—
Lily, radiant, one hand on her rounded belly. Ralph beside her, a soft grin breaking the formality of his suit.
Barry White reached toward them, took Lily’s hand, mimed her pose—hands over his own stomach.
She laughed. The audience laughed. Ralph leaned in close, suspended in the glow of it.
David replayed the moment. Again.
The phone’s light spilled across the blanket; the air held still around it.
He lowered the phone. The music kept playing, soft and unhurried.
Outside, the night pressed close against the window.
Inside, the last note lingered—low and steady, breath finding its way home.
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