The first thing Amara noticed when she entered the hospital room the next morning was the quiet. It wasn't the usual calm, punctuated by soft beeps and faint noises from the hallway. This quiet was different. It sat in the air like a presence, heavy and unshakable. Her steps faltered as her gaze swept the room.
The bed was empty.
For a single, unmoored moment, she thought maybe Kieran had been moved, that the staff had decided he needed better care or more intensive treatment. But the way the bed was stripped, the machines unplugged and pushed to the side, told her the truth long before she was ready to accept it.
Her bag slipped off her shoulder, landing on the chair with a muted thud as she stood frozen in place, her hands trembling at her sides. She should've seen this coming, she thought bitterly. The signs were there; he'd seemed lighter last night, his snark hiding something gentler, something final. But denial had been her constant companion, allowing her to cling to the belief that "tomorrow" was always guaranteed.
A nurse appeared in the doorway. "Miss Amara?" she asked gently, her tone softened with practiced kindness. "His family wanted us to tell you they're in the chapel. They thought you might want to join them."
Amara nodded, though she wasn't sure her legs could move. With fumbling fingers, she picked up her bag and made her way down the corridor, her breaths shallow and uneven. Each step felt heavier than the last, like her heart was dragging her down.
The chapel wasn't far, and the moment she stepped inside, she saw them. Kieran's mother was seated in the front pew, holding her husband's hand. Her face was streaked with tears, but as Amara approached, she managed the faintest of smiles. It was shaky and fragile, but it was there.
"Amara," she said softly, her hands reaching out. Amara knelt beside her, gripping them tightly, as though holding on to Kieran's mother would somehow keep her from unraveling entirely.
"I'm so sorry," Amara whispered, the words catching in her throat.
"You were there for him," Kieran's mother said, her voice watery but sure. "You were his light, even when things were dark. He talked about you every day. We didn't even have to ask."
Amara's chest tightened painfully as tears welled in her eyes. She wanted to say something, anything, but what could she offer in the face of such grief?
The service that followed later that day felt surreal, like watching a play she had no role in but couldn't escape. She sat near the front with Kieran's family, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Words were spoken, voices trembling as they shared memories of his stubbornness, his wit, the way he insisted on finding something to laugh about no matter how bad things got. Amara didn't speak; she wasn't sure she trusted her voice to hold steady.
It wasn't until hours later, when the crowd had thinned and the room was mostly empty, that she finally felt herself breathe again. She stood in front of the small table displaying pictures of Kieran, her fingers brushing over the edge of the frame that held one of her favorites. It was from years ago, taken on a sun-drenched afternoon when they'd spent hours running through sprinklers like kids, laughing until their sides hurt. Kieran's grin in the picture was the kind that lit up his whole face, and Amara found herself smiling now despite the tears.
"I wasn't ready," she whispered to the empty room. "I know I should've been, but I wasn't."
Her eyes fell to the tablet resting among his belongings. She'd seen him with it countless times, but now the sight of it felt oddly significant. She lifted it carefully, turning it on. At first, the screen was just a dull glow, but then a single document opened automatically. Her breath hitched as she scanned the words, fragments of a note he must've been writing in the days leading up to his passing.
It wasn't polished or complete; there were sentences left unfinished, but she didn't need perfection. Each word carried his voice, sharp and vivid, and she read them as though he were speaking directly to her.
"Life's not about the time you have, Amara. It's about the people who make it worth living. You're one of those people. You kept me grounded when everything else felt like it was slipping away. Don't forget to laugh, even when it hurts. And don't forget to forgive yourself—even when you think you don't deserve it. You do."
Her hands trembled as she reached the final sentence, a simple line that felt like a punch to the chest.
"I'll still be here. Always. Just look for the light."
Amara clutched the tablet to her chest, tears spilling freely now. The weight of his absence pressed down on her, but at the same time, a sliver of warmth broke through the grief like a thread of sunlight. Even in death, he was reminding her to live.
The next day, Amara found herself in their spot at the park, the one they'd always gone to when life became too much. She brought a deck of cards, setting it on the bench beside her like a silent offering. For a long time, she just sat there, letting the breeze play through her hair as she stared at the clouds. Dinosaurs and dragons, she thought with a faint smile. Always dinosaurs and dragons.
And as the sun broke through the late afternoon sky, painting the world in gold, she reached for the cards and began to shuffle. It wasn't much, but it was something. A way to honor him, to keep him close even as life pulled her forward. If she closed her eyes, she could almost hear him teasing her about not washing her hands before playing.
But for the first time since he'd left, the thought didn't hurt quite as much. The promise of tomorrow wasn't the same without him, but it was still there, glimmering faintly just out of reach. And Amara, with a deck of cards in her hands and the echoes of Kieran's laughter in her heart, decided to hold on to it.
For now, that was enough.