Welcome back to Holding On.
Last time, Emma sat by her grandfather’s bedside, her pencil tracing the stories that words could no longer hold. Ralph spoke of washing lines, sunlight, and the bold laugh that first caught his heart. In the garden, a beetle became a prince on a quest, and the smallest moments shimmered with quiet magic.
Now the sketchbook has become a bridge. As Ralph sleeps, Emma keeps drawing—capturing not just faces, but the space between them. When she asks to make their stories into a book, something shifts: memory becomes collaboration, and the family begins to build forward instead of only looking back.
It’s a chapter about continuity and creation—how grief softens when it’s shared, how love endures through the act of making. A letter, a sketch, a hum in the car—all threads in the same story, still unfolding.
Chapter Twenty-One
Rachel and David returned to Ralph’s room to find Emma sitting quietly by her grandfather’s bedside, her sketchbook open on her lap. The soft rasp of pencil against paper filled the stillness. Ralph was asleep, one hand resting on the letter from Lily that Emma had read earlier, his grip light, certain.
Liam darted forward, but Rachel caught his shoulder.
“Careful,” she said. “Grandad’s resting.”
Emma looked up and brightened. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear—automatic.
“Hi.”
Rachel crossed the room and sat opposite her.
“What are you working on now?”
Emma turned the sketchbook to show a drawing of Ralph—his face peaceful in sleep, the letter propped beside him.
“The way he holds it,” she said. “Like it’s precious.”
Rachel swallowed and looked at Ralph’s hand, still curved around the page.
From the doorway David raised an eyebrow.
“You’ve got a talent, kiddo. Making an old man’s day like that.”
Emma grinned.
“Thanks, Uncle David.”
She hesitated, fingers tightening on the sketchbook.
“Mum,” she began, softer now, “do you think we could turn my story into a proper book? With more of Grandad’s and Nana’s stories too? I could do the illustrations, and you could help me write it.”
Rachel blinked, caught off guard.
“A proper book?”
Emma nodded, her voice steadier.
“Yeah. You and Uncle David probably remember things I don’t, and Grandad could tell me more about Nana—like the things he’s told me today. We could make it whole.”
Rachel glanced at David. He gave a small nod, almost a shrug, a quiet breath that said enough.
“Sounds ambitious,” he said. “But a good idea.”
“You’d help?” Emma asked.
David nodded.
“Of course. I’ve got a few stories—some of them might even be true.”
“Be serious,” Emma said, rolling her eyes.
“I am,” he replied. “You’ve got my help.”
Rachel turned back to her daughter, a small lift in her chest.
“Alright,” she said. “If you’re sure, we’ll figure it out.”
Emma leaned in and hugged her.
“Thank you, Mum.”
A soft laugh drew their attention. Ralph’s eyes fluttered open, finding Emma.
“What’s this?” he murmured. “Making plans without me?”
Rachel reached for his hand.
“Emma wants to make a proper book, Dad. One with all the stories you and Mum told us.”
Ralph’s face brightened, a faint smile easing the lines.
“A proper book, eh? About time. Your Nana always said I was full of stories.”
“Think you’ve got a few more left, Dad?” David said.
Ralph’s gaze softened as it settled on Emma.
“For my girl? Always.”
Emma flipped to a blank page, pencil poised.
“Then let’s start now,” she said. “Tell me everything, Grandad.”
Rachel sat back, watching. David pulled up a chair beside her, unusually steady. She watched Emma’s pencil move—not just keeping, but making.
She paused at the doorway, her father’s laughter still in the room. Outside, the corridor smelled faintly of rain and disinfectant—one world folding into the next.
As they drove home, the road unspooled beneath them. The wipers brushed against a faint drizzle, steady and slow. In the rear-view mirror, Emma sat with her sketchbook balanced on her lap, pencil moving in deliberate strokes. Liam had dozed off in the back seat, his head tilted at an awkward angle, soft snores threading the hum.
For once, the silence wasn’t heavy. It was peaceful—filled only with the hum of the car and the faint scratch of Emma’s pencil.
Rachel felt her mother’s words rise again: Keep telling our stories.
At first, they’d been weight. Now, watching Emma sketch, they lightened.
Emma’s drawings didn’t just keep the past; they kept them connected—to Nana and Grandad, to each other.
Her gaze lingered on Emma. Pride rose. She’s not just remembering, Rachel thought.
By the time they pulled in, the house was lit and warm. Through the kitchen window, Chris’s silhouette moved against the light, faint music spilling into the night.
Rachel sat for a moment before opening the door, the hum of the road still in her ears.
Something in her eased.
That was enough.
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