Welcome back to Holding On.
Last time, Emma sat by her grandfather’s bedside, her pencil moving in the hush while he slept. The letter from Lily rested in his hand, the room holding its breath. What began as a sketch became something larger — an idea for a proper book, one that would gather all their stories before they slipped away.
Now, home again, the house hums with small sounds of the living: garlic and rain, the scrape of chairs, the clatter of plates. Around the kitchen table, the family begins to build what Emma imagined — a patchwork of memory and making, love carried forward through ordinary gestures.
It’s a chapter about renewal — how creation becomes continuation, and how love, once quieted, finds its way back into the light.
A hum.
A thread.
A clock keeping time through the dark.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The warm scent of garlic and herbs wrapped around Rachel as she followed Chris into the kitchen, Emma close behind and Liam shuffling in his socks.
The clatter of utensils and the oven fan’s hum steadied her — low and constant after the hush of the hospice.
For a moment she stood still, listening — the soft hiss of simmering sauce, the patter of distant rain, the faint tick of the clock above the window.
Then she exhaled and stepped forward.
Chris moved easily through the space, tasting the sauce and adjusting the heat.
“You should sit,” he said over his shoulder. “Dinner’ll be ready in five.”
Rachel hesitated, taking in the crooked tea towel on the oven door, the stack of plates.
So much had shifted, yet everything still held its place.
She ran her fingers along the chair back before sitting.
Emma pulled up beside her, sketchbook balanced on her knees, a pencil tucked behind one ear.
Chris filled four glasses and set them down, the sound of water meeting glass.
“Tell me more about this book,” he said, glancing at Emma. “You’ve had the whole house curious.”
Emma flipped open the sketchbook and turned it toward him.
The drawing showed Ralph’s lined hands cupping Lily’s letter, sunlight feathering the edges.
“Grandad’s stories about Nana — and the ones Mum and Uncle David remember. All of them together.”
Chris studied the page, his expression warming.
“You’ve really caught him. That look in his hands — love and memory at once.”
Emma’s pencil shifted slightly in her grip, leaving a faint smudge along the edge of the page.
“Do you think it’s good enough? For a real book?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “You’re not just drawing — you’re keeping something alive.”
Rachel watched, her chest drawing tight with ache and gratitude.
Chris rinsed the spoon, waiting. Emma looked steadier.
Her gaze lingered on him — the easy way he moved through the kitchen. The quiet rhythm of someone who’d made ordinary things sacred again.
“It’s a big project,” she said. “But I think you’re ready.”
“I want to do it for Grandad. And for Nana.”
“Then we’d better eat,” Chris said, turning off the burner and reaching for the plates. “Artists need fuel.”
Spaghetti, salad, and slightly scorched garlic bread covered the table by the time they sat down.
The room buzzed with chatter and the scrape of forks against ceramic.
The light above the table threw an amber gleam across the sauce, tinting the edges of plates and glasses.
“Grandad told me how he met Nana,” Emma said, waving her fork.
“She was hanging the washing. He just stood there staring at her until she called him daft.”
“Strong opener,” Chris said. “Always works.”
Rachel smiled, warmth rising. “That was your Nana — bold and certain.”
“She made art from scraps, too,” Emma said. “Postcards and string. Mum, you said she kept a box of them?”
“In the attic somewhere,” Rachel said. “She labelled everything. I bet it’s still there.”
“Can we look for it this weekend?”
Rachel glanced toward the window; rain tapped softly, a slow rhythm against the glass.
“Maybe,” she said. “We’ll see what we find.”
Chris tapped his glass with his fork. “And thus the first research trip is planned. Title pending.”
The laughter that followed was easy, low. Rachel watched their faces in the shifting glow of the kitchen light, warmth rising soft as steam.
“Maybe The Life and Love of Ralph and Lily Jackson,” Emma said.
Liam perked up, sauce on his chin. “I want to help!”
“Perfect,” Chris said. “Chief of Creative Input.”
Rachel laughed. “Let’s take it one story at a time,” she said, glancing at Emma. “But I think we’re off to a good start.”
The conversation wandered — from family stories, to Liam’s beetle prince, and Chris’s rescue of the garlic bread.
The noise felt ordinary and alive, like a house remembering how to breathe.
Between bursts of laughter, Rachel caught her reflection in the window: four figures haloed by kitchen light, rain patterning the glass behind them.
The window caught them — four shapes in the light, held for a moment between breath and reflection.
When the plates were mostly empty and the laughter had softened into a low vibration, Emma opened her sketchbook.
Her pencil tapped against the edge of the page before she looked up.
“Can I ask something?”
Chris leaned back, folding his hands around his glass. “Go on.”
“I don’t want the book to be just Grandad’s stories,” she said. “I want it to show what they meant — to all of us.” She traced a faint circle on the paper before glancing up again. “I don’t think I can tell it right without you.”
Rachel blinked, then smiled, a quiet ache of pride rising. “You want us to help?”
Emma nodded. “Yeah. You said Nana kept that box in the attic. Maybe some of her collages could go in too.”
Rachel’s gaze lifted toward the ceiling, the attic’s weight somewhere above. “We’ll find it this weekend,” she said. “You can choose what fits.”
“So you’re recruiting us,” Chris said, weighing it. “What do you need — embarrassing stories? Dramatic retellings?”
“Not too dramatic,” Emma said, pencil still in hand. “I’m not writing a soap.”
“Fair,” he said. “Whatever you need, I’m in.”
Liam stacked two breadsticks into a wobbly tower. “I can help too!”
Emma reached over and ruffled his hair. “You’ll probably have the best ideas.”
Rachel rested her hand on Emma’s shoulder, her thumb brushing the seam of her jumper.
“What you’re doing is special. Nana and Grandad would be proud. We all are.”
Chris raised his glass, eyes bright in the amber light. “To The Life and Love of Ralph and Lily Jackson, by Emma Williams and the team.”
They clinked — small and bright — the sound filling the room like rain.
Beyond the window, the drizzle thickened, tapping against the pane.
The oven clicked off, leaving only the quiet vibration of the fan and the faint hiss of cooling burners.
Emma bent over her sketchbook, pencil whispering across the page; Liam traced raindrops racing down the glass; Chris gathered plates.
As he passed behind her, his palm brushed the small of Rachel’s back — a quiet anchor.
She stood for a moment in the doorway, watching the scene settle into place: her daughter drawing, her son counting raindrops, her partner stacking dishes under yellow light.
The air smelled of rain and garlic, comfort threaded through memory — the threads holding in the hush that followed.
She lingered there, listening to the low breath of the house.
The air still held the heat of dinner.
Somewhere above, a box waited — her mother’s careful labels still holding.
Rachel glanced upward once more before turning off the light.
The rain continued, steady and certain.
She exhaled slowly, and something in her eased.
From the kitchen, the faint tick of the clock kept time through the dark.
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