There is always a last time.
You just don't know when it is happening.
It was an ordinary afternoon.
Sunlight spilled through the hospital window. She was calmer that day, sitting in her chair near the garden.
I brought her favorite shawl — the soft cream one she used to wrap around herself during winter evenings.
She touched the fabric and something flickered.
"Where did you get this?" she asked.
"It's yours."
She looked at me carefully.
Longer than usual.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, like someone focusing a blurry photograph.
"You…" she whispered.
My breath caught.
"You have my mother's eyes."
I couldn't speak.
She leaned forward, studying my face with unexpected clarity.
"Aarohi," she said.
Not uncertain.
Not confused.
Certain.
My knees nearly gave way.
"Yes, Ma," I breathed. "Yes."
Her hand reached for mine — steady, warm.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly.
"For what?"
"For leaving before I'm gone."
The sentence broke something open inside me.
"You're not leaving," I said quickly, tears spilling. "I'm right here."
She smiled sadly.
"You're strong," she whispered. "You always were."
Her thumb brushed against my knuckles like she used to do when I was nervous before exams.
"I love you," she said.
Clear.
Whole.
Complete.
I pressed my forehead against her hand.
"I love you more."
She looked tired suddenly.
Peaceful.
She leaned back into the chair and closed her eyes for a moment.
When she opened them again…
The recognition was gone.
"Excuse me," she said politely. "Are you one of the nurses?"
And just like that…
The last time had passed.