Raymond's POV
The mornings were getting quieter day by day. Not the peaceful kind of quiet we’d come to cherish, but the kind where you start counting breaths—your own and the ones that might not last.
My father had grown paler. Slower. His words, once sharp and intentional, sometimes trailed off in the middle of sentences now. His hands trembled when he tried to hold a cup of tea, and his eyes closed a little longer between thoughts.
The doctors had warned us.
We had two months, if we were lucky.
We were already five weeks in.
This is really hard on everyone, everyone is fighting in their own silent ways.
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He still insisted on staying in the study downstairs. Beatrice moved her reading chair closer to his bed, and a picture of all of us—one Miranda had drawn with uneven heads
