Welcome back to Holding On.
Last time, Lily’s letter was unfolded at last—a voice returned across the years, her words binding the family in grief and uneasy grace. Rachel, David, and Ralph sat with memory pressed into paper, and silence spoke as loudly as the lines Lily had left behind.
Now the thread passes forward. Emma steps into her grandfather’s room with her sketchbook in hand, unsure if her lines can carry what words cannot. Ralph’s recollections surface in fragments—washing lines, sunlight, a bold laugh once shared—and Emma begins to draw their weight into the present.
It’s a chapter about stories reborn: a line erased, then drawn again, an old man’s hands opening to receive, a brother’s apology halting but not denied. A beetle glimpsed in the garden becomes a prince on a quest, reminding them that even the smallest things can hold a kind of magic.
Chapter Twenty
Rachel drove down the winding road, late-afternoon sunlight pooling on the dashboard and catching the edges of Emma’s folded hands. Beside her, Emma stared out the window, her expression distant. In the back seat, Liam fidgeted with his backpack zipper, his swinging feet tapping a quiet rhythm against the seat.
Rachel tightened her grip on the wheel, her thoughts drifting between the hospice visit and her mother’s letter. She glanced at Emma, sensing the unspoken questions in her daughter’s silence.
“Alright, out with it,” Rachel said gently, aiming for reassurance. “You’ve been awfully quiet since we left school. What’s on your mind?”
Emma hesitated, brushing her fingers against her skirt. “I was thinking about Nana’s letter. You said it was about her memories—things she wanted us to know. Do you think Grandad has more stories like that? About when they were younger?”
The question hit Rachel with a bittersweet pang. She nodded, her voice soft. “Oh, I’m sure he does. Your Grandad’s full of stories. When we were kids, he used to tell us how he met Nana, all the silly things they got up to.”
Emma frowned slightly. “Do you think he’d mind?”
“Mind? Emma, he’d love it. He lights up every time we talk about Nana.”
From the rearview mirror, Rachel caught Liam rolling his eyes. “He talks a lot,” he muttered.
Rachel bit back a chuckle. “Liam,” she said with gentle reproach, “talking is how we keep people close. Someday, you’ll want to remember those stories.”
Emma glanced at her brother but stayed thoughtful. “Maybe I could ask him today,” she said quietly.
Rachel nodded. “That’s a lovely idea. I think he’d be happy you want to know.”
The car fell into a companionable silence, Emma’s quiet determination settling over them. As they pulled into the hospice parking lot, Rachel felt a familiar ache in her chest—not dread, but the bittersweet weight of how finite these moments had become.
The low hum of the engine faded as Rachel turned off the ignition. She glanced at Emma, who lingered in her seat, her sketchbook clutched to her chest.
“You ready?” Rachel asked softly.
Emma traced the worn edge of the cover, opened to a blank page, drew a single line—and rubbed it away with her thumb. The paper feathered slightly.
“I don’t want to miss anything,” she murmured. “Or ask the wrong thing.”
Rachel brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, then rested her hand over Emma’s on the sketchbook. “One story at a time,” she said. “Maybe your drawings can sit beside the stories. Side by side.”
Emma’s shoulders eased. She nodded, slid the pencil behind her ear, and looped the elastic back around the book.
As they stepped out, a memory flickered for Rachel—her mother at the kitchen table years ago, making pictures out of scraps: postcards, string, a selvedge of dress fabric. There’s a box somewhere, she thought. Attic.
With a steadying breath, she followed Emma inside.
Emma stepped into Ralph’s room, the hallway noise fading as the door clicked shut. She lingered by the entrance, sketchbook held to her chest. The room was quiet except for the steady rhythm of Ralph’s breathing and the faint beeping of the monitor.
Rachel’s fingers brushed the doorframe before she let go.
Emma moved closer. Ralph’s head turned on the pillow, his tired eyes brightening when he saw her. “Ah,” he rasped warmly. “There’s my favorite artist. Come to keep an old man company?”
Emma smiled, fingers tightening on the sketchbook. “I thought maybe we could talk,” she said softly, sliding her chair closer. “About Nana. About when you were young.”
Ralph chuckled, the sound faint and crackling like an old record. “Your Nana, hmm? A grand subject. What would you like to know?”
“Everything,” Emma said, quiet but earnest. “What she liked to do, what made her laugh, how you met. All of it.”
“Everything, eh? That could take a while.” His gaze softened. “Your Nana… she was something else.”
Emma opened to a blank page, pencil hovering. For a breath she stared at the paper; then she looked up. “Start at the beginning,” she said, steady now. “How did you meet?”
“I met her at a washing line,” he said, eyes creasing as the memory surfaced. “She was hanging clothes, humming some lively tune I can’t name. Sunlight caught her hair—golden as wheat. I stopped dead like a fool. There was a red peg clipped to the hem of a sheet, swinging in the light.”
“What did you do?”
“Well,” Ralph chuckled, “I stood there staring, which she didn’t appreciate. Looked me right in the eye and said, ‘You need something, or are you just daft?’ Bold as brass, that one.”
Emma giggled, pencil moving. “What did you say?”
“Probably something equally daft,” Ralph admitted, fond. “But it must’ve worked. A week later, she asked me to the pictures. That was your Nana—never waited for anyone to catch up.”
Emma’s pencil paused. “Do you think… she’d like what I draw?”
Ralph turned toward her, gaze soft and serious. “Emma, she’d adore it. She’d see her spark in you, the way I do.”
The knot in her chest loosened. “Thanks, Grandad,” she murmured, drawing again.
After a few minutes she eased the page free—then hesitated. Ralph saw the pause and opened both hands, not reaching. “May I?”
She nodded and set the drawing in his palms: a young couple beneath a clothesline, sunlight casting long shadows. His breath hitched; his thumb brushed the pencil lines.
“It’s beautiful,” he said, voice thick. “She’d have loved this. And so do I.”
“I’m glad, Grandad.”
He propped the drawing where he could see it. “Thank you,” he said softly. “It’s a treasure.” He closed his eyes, resting.
Emma opened her sketchbook again. Her pencil moved without hesitation, capturing their hands—hers small and steady, his lined and frail—resting together in the soft afternoon light.
“Your Nana used to say even beetles had stories,” Ralph murmured, eyes still closed. “Princes on quests, the lot of them.” Emma smiled and drew the curve of his thumb more carefully.
Rachel and David walked quietly through the hospice garden, gravel crunching underfoot. The door sighed shut behind them; cooler air, resin and cut grass. Late light stretched long shadows across the hedges; a faint breeze stirred the oaks. Ahead, Liam darted between the trees, chasing a tumbling yellow leaf.
“They’ve grown up a lot, haven’t they?” David said, nodding toward Liam crouched by a flowerbed. “Especially Emma. Feels like yesterday they were wrecking Mum and Dad’s garden.”
Rachel managed a faint smile. “Yeah. They’re growing up fast.” She swallowed. “I just wish it wasn’t like this. That they didn’t have to grow up with… all this.”
David paused by a low brick wall and leaned back. “It’s hard,” he said simply. “No way around that.”
Rachel folded her arms. “I keep thinking about Mum’s letter. How she wanted us to remember the good things, not just this.” The building threw a long, square shadow over the bedded marigolds.
David nudged a loose pebble, watched it skitter. “Yeah. I get that.” He drew a breath. “I’ve been… absent,” he said, choosing the smaller word. “For years, not just now. I can’t fix all of it. But I can show up. Helping Emma—it feels like a second chance. If you’ll let me.”
Rachel unfolded her arms, a small concession. “Showing up is a good start,” she said. “You’re doing more than you think. And Emma sees it.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, quieter. “She’s not just telling stories. She’s reminding us why they matter.” He turned a found feather in his fingers. “Magic in the little things—that was Mum’s line.”
“She does,” Rachel said. “And she’s showing us how to carry it.”
For the first time in a while, the silence between them felt lighter.
“Mum! Uncle David!” Liam’s voice rang out. He ran toward them, hands cupped around something. “Look at this! It’s so cool!”
David crouched as Liam skidded to a stop. Inside his hands gleamed a shiny beetle, its dark body catching the sun.
“That’s a beauty,” David said with mock seriousness, peering closer. “Bet it’s a soldier beetle. What do you think, Rach?”
Rachel knelt, smiling. “Dad would’ve made up a story about it,” she said softly. “A beetle prince on a quest.”
David chuckled, posture easing. “Sounds like him.”
Liam grinned and set the beetle in the grass. “It can go back to its quest now.”
The beetle slid under a thatch of clover and was gone.
As Liam ran ahead, chasing another tumbling leaf, Rachel and David stood. The air felt calmer.
“You know,” David said, thoughtful, “Mum always said there was magic in the little things. I think that’s what Emma’s doing—showing us the magic we forgot.”
Rachel’s gaze followed Liam between the trees. “And maybe reminding us how to see it again.”
David nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. Maybe.”
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